Rest In Peace, Ginger

In which we are shattered.

Bazougey

Where goes he now, that dark little dog
who used to come down the road barking and shining?
He’s gone now, from the world of particulars,
the singular, the visible.

So, that deepest sting: sorrow. Still,
is he gone from us entirely, or is he
a part of that other world, everywhere?

Come with me into the woods where spring is
advancing, as it does, no matter what,
not being singular or particular, but one
of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

See how the violets are opening, and the leaves
unfolding, the streams gleaming and the birds
singing. What does it make you think of?
His shining curls, his honest eyes, his
beautiful barking.

— Mary Oliver

Today we said goodbye to Ginger, our beautiful pup. Vee and I lay beside her on the floor in the living room where she spent so many happy hours, and held her as the vet gently ended her suffering.

Ten days ago, she was perfectly healthy, or seemed so. Four days ago, her vet told us that she had maybe swallowed something she shouldn’t have, but she would be fine. Three days ago, the same vet transferred her to the animal hospital, where the emergency vet told me that he thought she might have cancer. Two days ago, there was a chance she had a chance. Yesterday, she started crashing and kept crashing. And today, I brought her home for her final hours, and to let her human sisters see her one last time.

And yet, because this is Ginger we are talking about, who I wanted to name “Maitri,” meaning “lovingkindness,” which she embodied, her tail never stopped wagging, even when she was too weak to lift her head. Her beautiful spirit never failed her, right up to the very end.

I know in this space I should be writing big abstract things like: 2020 was miserable. 2021 put 2020 to shame. And now 2022 is rolling up its sleeves and saying, “Hold my beer.” And then I am supposed to be pulling some sort of lesson from this. But I just cannot. I just want to tell you about Ginger.

As the girls begin to process this, especially the younger two, we will read Judith Viorst’s poignant book, The Tenth Good Thing About Barney, which is a necessity for parents of young children who are facing the loss of a beloved pet. And we will easily count ten good things about Ginny, and then keep counting.

She never met a person or a dog she did not love and want to greet with sometimes overwhelming enthusiasm.

As we sat with her in her final hours, Vee began to play the piano.

“What is Ginger’s song?” Annie asked.

And Elise replied, “Ginger’s song is people.”

She was right.

She was adamant that belly rubs were the greatest sign of love, and she requested them every morning, on her favorite chair, from which she had impatiently kicked the seat cushion to make more room for wriggling.

She often claimed the best spot on my bed or on Vee’s bed, and defended her territory with a stolid, immovable insistence.

A mostly empty yogurt container was a thing of joy for her, and she would dive into it with her whole head, and emerge delighted and dotted with white.

Her sentry station was this front window, from which she would loudly greet all the passersby, saving her greatest excitement for her pal Chloe, and Chloe’s family.

She was an excellent, if distractible, hiking companion, and, like her humans, loved a good ramble in the woods.

She made an effort to stop chasing Tom, although she sometimes couldn’t help it, and she was finally able to maintain a fragile peace with him, broken only occasionally by moments when she remembered that old maxim about cats and dogs.

She had no idea how to sit properly on a sofa.

She did know how to sit properly in Elise’s booster seat.

She came into our lives when our lives were slashed by COVID and divorce, and she made us, if not entirely whole, then more whole than before, and that was everything.

And mostly and entirely she was a bundle of friendliness and delight, a walking, wagging reminder that we get only one life, sometimes far too brief, so we had better make each day count and fill every moment with unbounded love. She was better than all of us, even when she was getting into mischief, and there are no words to tell how our hearts are blown apart by her death.

The only blessings in these dark days are the love and care that have held me up and kept me moving forward through the excruciating pain, and which I must name: Dréa and Heather, who loved Ginger like their own, and who have wrapped me in a sustaining blanket of love, and Heather, too, for being by my side on the terrible trip to the animal hospital and back this morning. Kate, who bought a last minute plane ticket to Maryland, because that is just the kind of wonderful sister and aunt she is. Renata, who has sent a healing river of love down from New England. Michael, who has offered so much warmth and kindness, and who is right there beside me as we work together to help our daughters navigate this trauma. And last but not at all least, Ben, who did not sign up for this, but has not flinched, and who has offered, over and over, his strong shoulders for me to cry on. The gratitude I feel to each and every one of you is beyond all telling.