GINGER

Ginger
By
Debbie Lindsey

Ginger was born with a silver spoon in her mouth -- she would have preferred a Milk Bone. Initially, she was a San Francisco gal; curbed at some of the cleanest sidewalks the West Coast had to offer. But, this California blonde Labrador of hoity-toity lineage had no trouble making the French Quarter her home.
I met her when she was three. That was over seven years ago. I would say hello to her as she held court with other neighborhood dogs outside CC’s Coffee Shop. Philipe, the man who belonged to her, was inside. The dog guy and I soon started to exchange hellos and before long I was the dog lady.
At first she was merely my “new boyfriend’s dog”. Oh, she was a beauty and very kind, but I had been a cat person for so long that I just didn’t have the canine instinct about me. Well, Ginger certainly changed all that.
I came to love her over time. At first she was merely along for the ride whenever I was with Philipe…or so I thought. It was me who was along for the ride. I am sure Ginger wanted to know why this new lady was diverting attention from Philipe – attention that was rightfully hers. Now, bear in mind, she never was anything less than gracious. But, I was this tentative person who didn’t like dog breath or care much for the scent of a dog.
That sure changed. The more time I spent with her the more I came to notice dogs, to appreciate dogs, compelled to pet and cajole every dog I met. My cat, Phil, could tell I was seeing another critter by the dog scent that had begun to permeate my clothing, my skin. So, I guess it was no surprise when Ginger had her first sleep-over at my place.
Ginger out-ranked Phil in stature, but my boy cat proved boss with one swat to G’s nose. No big deal, barely even drew blood but Ginger never ever dared to flaunt her size. Big, tall, seventy-something pound Ginger deferred to my kitty from then on.
I had never walked a dog on a leash before Ginger. My beloved childhood dog, Rags, belonged to a bygone era when neighborhood dogs ran free (impregnating every dog insight) and collars were rare and leases unheard of. Rags was my first, and I thought, last dog. Then there was G and the beginnings of my training.
The “Tangle Tango Trick” is by far a dog’s favorite. Even the most seasoned dog walker has been known to fall prey to this one. Some years later, believing myself to be a pro, I nearly collapsed among a heap of dogs, some near choking. Ginger’s unruly, un-neutered, ex-lover, left/her/at/the/altar, sperm donating dog, Binx, and their illegitimate ninety-pound pup, Willie, reunioned at my ankles (more on their liaison later). Little Rosie was also tangled in the mix. And as my hands and legs turned blue from varicose veins being bunched together by four leashes I knew a cat would never do this to me.
Less fraught with danger, yet not for the faint-hearted, is pooper-scooping. The sanitary engineering involved in proper poop pick-up and placement may seem a no-brainer – unless it’s your first time. For me, my first solo, single parenting, sidewalk scoop with Ginger was the day after she stole and consumed our entire Mexican carryout. Gentle reader, let’s just say, I dutifully mopped the pavement with my Times-Picayune.
Ginger segued from “my boyfriend’s dog” to “our dog, my dog” during walks to my apartment for sleepovers when Philipe worked night shifts. I soon found how fun it was to chatter and prattle to her as we strolled about the Quarter. She and I enjoyed cocktails out. “I’ll have a wine and Ginger wants her usual.” Her usual being a glass of ice cubes or “ice cookies”, as her bartender, Tom calls them.
Ginger’s vocabulary increased in New Orleans to include the names of all our/her bartender friends. “Go see Amy! Go get Jeffery!” commands came to include the name recognitions of Polly, Kat, Lindsey, Donna, Russell, Marinnette and another gazillion names attached to love, affection and treats.
My true test came in the form of birthing nine puppies. When Ginger was five she was “fixed up on a blind date” with Binx. Binx, while being a Lab from a high falutin’ family of great and pure canine genes, was just a good ole cracker of a dog. All he wanted was a good time and a male heir to the gene pool. Ginger acquiesced after the proper foreplay -- a bowl of dog food.
On the night of her due-date G slept with her sweet head on my chest. I felt a kinship unlike anything I’ve known. We were both so scared. Philipe was stuck at work. I was mid-wife. Eight of the nine pups (Willie being Binx’s only acknowledged heir) survived her naïveté and my ignorance during the hours long birthing. All eight babies grew to be beautiful replicas of their mom and were adopted into very loving families – very lucky families.
About a year after her motherhood (and a commitment to celibacy) Ginger felt I had proved myself –I was now ready for my very own dog. And she was ready for a sister. So, then along came…Rosie! Philipe brought home Rosie (and anyone who reads this column knows all about Rosie by now), a reddish brown terrier mix with Audrey Hepburn eyes. She needed adopting and in turn she adopted us.

From then on Ginger and Rosie were a team -- “The Girls”. Sleep- overs became fur fests, slumber parties with me scrapping for my small piece of the action, mattress space, a pillow of my own! Walks were a constant lookout for chicken bones, interlocking leashes, and competitive
pissin’ and sniffin’. They just love to check their pmail. They would ‘work’ a bar, really ham it up for a treat. Rosie’s great pleasure was to jump on Ginger’s back and hump her like there was no tomorrow. Folks will say that it’s merely a show of dominance – naah, Rosie would smile like a girl in love.
We were all in love with Ginger. When she became ill our friends worried over her, over us. An auction, a raffle and a fund raising party to offset the mounting hospital expenses was organized and hosted by friends -- hers and ours. Folks phoned, came to visit, sent cards, money, treats. Some even prayed.
If love could have saved a life then Ginger would be immortal. But, Philipe’s defiant mantra “This can not be the year my dog dies!” fell on the deaf ears of fate.
And so it went, on an early Saturday morning Rosie dreamed and whimpered in her sleep, a newspaper was never delivered, a pair of eyeglasses broke, and when the phone rang at 7:30 Philipe’s heart began to break. Ginger waited for us. An hour later at the hospital, in our arms, she left us.
And she left us the better for having loved us.
Ginger
July 4, 1996 – February 10, 2007