My Friend Ginger

“How much is that doggie in the window?” sang Patti Page in the U.S. and Lita Roza in the U.K. in popular recordings in 1953. For me, Ginger was that doggie in the window. She was in a litter of chocolate brown pups for sale in the pet store where a friend of mine had entered to buy a bag of cat food. I was waiting in the car when my friend came out and said I should go in to see the cute puppies. Rather reluctantly, I entered the store. I exited with Ginger.

She was THE cutest pup I had ever seen, and she grew up to be THE snazziest dog! With elegant strands fringing her ears and tail, with dainty feet and nose, with classy bearing, Ginger was chic and smart and uptown.

My Photograph of Ginger in Her Younger Years

In her childhood, Ginger went everywhere with me. She was so small that she fit in the pocket of my overcoat that first winter. In a year before airport security tightened, she waited with me in the lobby when my brother was flying in for a visit. Everyone wanted to know her breed. I had no answer, as Ginger was a stunning cross of several breeds.

Ginger enjoyed several snowy days in a holiday resort filled with Christmas shoppers in the narrow streets lined with cheerful shops. “What an adorable puppy!” strangers exclaimed. “What breed is she?” They gently patted her velvet ears, then back she would go in my coat pocket.

During her girlhood, I taught Ginger valuable lessons. She learned to play dead, roll over, walk on her hind legs, speak, jump through a hoop, chase her tail, and stay—all on my command. She willingly demonstrated her extensive knowledge of the subjects I have named. But there was one lesson she refused to learn. Ginger would not come. When I said, “Stay,” she sat in place and smiled slightly. When I said, “Come,” she closed her mouth and glanced regally to one side, as if to say, “If you think I would demean myself to obey you, you have another think coming!” After some seconds, she would stand and walk haughtily away.

Many a time, I wished that she would come on command, but she always disdainfully declined. Her scorn was queenly. She had made up her royal mind, and I learned to respect her wishes. A dog of Ginger’s regal demeanor could not be forced to acquiesce. Hadn’t she already done more than enough to be on such friendly terms with a commoner like me?

In her womanhood, Ginger was inclined to be flighty. A knock at the door would send her into a paroxysm of barking. Afterward, she needed many minutes to calm herself down. She also developed an operatic voice. At times of her choosing, she howled. I called these performances her “arias.” Naturally, she always selected her melodies from the French repertoire.

« Que c’est beau! Vous chantez comme un oiseau, mon cher ami! »

(“How beautiful! You sing like a bird, my dear friend!”) I often exclaimed, but Ginger regretted my pronunciation’s defects.

Whenever I handed her a treat to eat, Ginger would gracefully accept it with her doll-like teeth. She would not be as coarse as other dogs that snatched the food from my hand, sometimes nipping me. No, Ginger was ever elegant, deft, refined.

Ginger Melting Hearts

The delicate dog that she was, Ginger did not live as long as I would have liked. Toward the end, she knew she was dying. She turned her long-lashed eyes toward me, as it to say she would avoid death if she could, if only to keep me company. When I buried her beside the graves of my other pets, her body reclined upon the soft pillow she had loved.