My dog days

You could probably say that, from ages 11 to 18, Ginger was my best friend. She was certainly more consistently friendly, more consistently accessible, and less judgemental, than any of my other friends.

And she never tried to borrow money from me. Doggie treats were always welcome, though.

Ginger was a tan, smaller-than-average female cocker spaniel. She was the only dog I ever owned. We had had cats before, because my parents, Mom and Dad both, liked felines, and so did I. But no canines, after I came along — until Ginger, too, came along.

I think I got interested in having a dog after reading a book from the Madison library about what it was like, owning a dog. Yes, I was a bookworm, even then. The book gave detailed pictures, worded to the level of an 11-year-old, of how to choose a puppy, what they should be fed, how often and how much; other aspects of their raising, specifically how to teach them not to mess on the floor inside; and other aspects of how to be a successful owner of Man’s Best Friend.

Well, folks, I was hooked. I began pestering my folks for a puppy. Now, even though I was an only child, they didn’t spoil me with a lot of material things. For one thing, they both came from big farm families, where “spoiling” just wasn’t an option. For another, they were trying to make a success of a motel they had built when already middle-aged, and money was scarce.

But I think they could really tell that I had my heart set on a dog — my very own Best Friend. They looked around, until they found a farmer between Milton and Bedford whose cocker had just had a litter. The puppies weren’t weaned yet, so we came back a few weeks later, and picked out the runt of that litter. The name Ginger just kind of fell into place, because of her color. She was lively and friendly.

I still remember Dad saying to the owner, “How much I owe you?” and the guy replying, “Twenty dollars.” A look crossed Dad’s face, like he knew he’d just been had; but he pulled out his wallet and reluctantly parted with a 20-spot. I was a proud new dog owner!

I had to learn how to take care of a dog at the same time Ginger was learning she wasn’t to leave “puddles and piles,” as Mom always called them, in the house. It didn’t help matters any that she had three people all trying to teach her house manners at the same time. Mom always said that if she could have had Ginger to herself for a week, without Dad and me there, she could have house-broken her just fine. I wondered at the time if she was right. But in the many years since then I’ve noticed that women tend to utter little put-downs like that about the men and boys in their lives, so I now take the memory with a grain of salt. I think Ginger was just stubborn.

For instance, she was outside a good bit, usually with at least one of us, and inside a lot, too. But as we lived near the corner of what is now Michigan Road and Clifty Drive, a busy intersection even then, so we were afraid to put her outside when we went to bed at night. Instead, we would put her out in the laundry-furnace room and shut the door connecting it to the kitchen. So she was inside, but not “in the house,” while we slept.

The little scamp didn’t like that at all! To let us know in no uncertain terms, she always left us several puddles and piles to find the next morning, just to show her displeasure. “Shut me up here all by myself, will ya?! Well, take THAT (Urrrggg!) and THAT (Owwwhuhn!)!”

We finally got her housebroken — but never laundry-furnace room broken. Western Union had nothing on Ginger when it came to sending a message.

Our little tan pet showed her stubbornness in another way, too. The book from the library I read (oh, it made everything sound so easy!) said dogs should be taught to “heel” when walked on a leash. The only problem with that was, Ginger had never read the book.

When I would walk her on her leash — occasionally — I would pull her back toward my left leg, saying, “Heel! Heel!” as the book taught. You see, the dog’s head was supposed to be just about in line with your left knee. But Ginger wasn’t having any; she pulled and tugged on the leash, gasping like a man being hanged, trying to get loose from it. She never — ever — adjusted to the leash. I finally gave up. We lived on the hilltop, anyway.

I learned that Ginger was a music lover, too — well, after her own fashion. I was in the grade school band at the old North Madison School, and when I would practice my saxophone at home, she would sit in the room with me, going “Wooo! Wowyoww! Ayoooo!” and the like, more or less singing harmony to my playing of the melody. We always laughed up a storm at this — then felt guilty because we thought the sound of my sax might be hurting her ears. But I’ve talked to vets in later years who said that more likely it’s a dog’s pack instinct. The pooch hears a sound like a musical instrument, and instinctively tries to “sing along.”

Besides, if it was hurting her ears, she could have run into the other end of the house. But she never did.

Ginger was an excitable little animal. It didn’t take me long to pick up on this, of course. Sometimes we’d all be sitting around in the evening, and maybe she’d be lying around on the floor, for a change (she had her own chair, with plastic upholstery, that we let her lie on). I’d go over to her, jump up in the air suddenly and cry, “Ginger!” She would start up, and stare at me. I’d do the jump and “Ginger!” again, even louder, and she’d take off, racing around and around from room to room in the house like she was possessed. Mom would get so mad at me for doing that; I think I got swatted for it a couple of times. Especially after the time that Ginger went racing into the darkened kitchen and ran head-on into a cabinet. We heard her go, “Yowww!” in pain. In a minute or two she came slinking back into the living room, acting embarrassed.

Dad wasn’t a “touchy, feely” kind of man, with people or pets. But once in a great while, when he was in a good mood, he might let Ginger jump up onto his lap while we were watching TV. Overjoyed at this unaccustomed liberty, she would bounce  and  leap, trying to lick his face, and he would pull his head back from her, laughing at her antics but unwilling to come in contact with that sloppy tongue.

When I’d play with Ginger, she’d often lick me. But if Dad or Mom saw her do it, I’d hear a panicked yell, “DON’T let her lick you in the FACE!” These two middle-aged farm kids, who had grown up around both pets and livestock, were scared to death that their one and only child (my older brother died at birth) would catch some loathesome disease from his pet.

But I never did.

Ginger was basically a friendly, non-threatening little dog. But she had appointed herself Guardian of Our Property, and she took that seriously. She would be asleep in her chair or on the floor when a motel guest would come in the office door to see a room and check in in the evening. All it took was one sound, and Ginger was up and on duty: “WOOO woo woo!! Woo!!” she would bellow (the first “woo”always the loudest) , streaking for the office with one of us in hot pursuit, yelling, “Ginger! Get back in there!” Some guests were a little spooked by her, although I don’t think she would ever have hurt anyone. She never did, anyway.

The closest she ever came was with Yours Truly, her owner. Can you imagine? I found out something about how the primal wolf in a dog can come out suddenly and unexpectedly the first time Mom gave Ginger a soupbone to gnaw on. The dog took it and retired to a favorite throw rug, chomping happily away.

I had sometimes stopped to pet her or talk to her when she was eating her dog food each night, and she would normally just glance up, then keep eating. But this was Something Special. This was A BONE!

I approached Ginger, intending to pet her and ask her how she liked this new delicacy. When she saw me coming, she stopped gnawing and froze in place, rolling her eyes in my direction. “Grrrrr!” came from that little throat — first time I’d ever heard her actually growl. Stupid me! I came a little closer, started to reach out to her — and was rewarded with a sudden lunge, bared fangs, and a snarl like she would take my hand off. Luckily I was quick enough to avoid contact, but it startled me. Mom or Dad said, “Dogs can get like that if they think you’re going to take something away they really like. You’d better be careful.”

Well, I was from then on. But every time Ginger was gnawing on a bone after that, I would creep up, making sure she saw me, and say, “Gonna get her bone! Gonna get her bone!” She always reacted the same — fiercely protective of her treasure, growling, snapping. As little boys will sometimes tease an adult they see as “marginal” in the community, just to try to get an angry reaction out of him, I couldn’t resist provoking little Ginger.

Shame on me.

Sometimes I thought somebody back in Ginger’s family tree had jumped the fence. Because, unlike most dogs, she HATED getting wet! We found that out the first time we tried to give her a bath. It took two of us — one to scrub, the other to try to keep her in the tub. And if you loosened your grip even a little, she’d have one foot out of the tub and another raised before you could say, “She acts like a cat!” From then on, any time we got the wash tub out and started filling it with water, Ginger would flat disappear. She’d be in the farthest corner of the house, hiding under a bed, and when you picked her up to carry her to the tub, she was absolute dead weight.

So, between my parents’ being so busy, and the illnesses that had already started to plague Mom, and my inability to wash Ginger by myself, we finally just gave up, and let her go dirty. She didn’t mind it a bit. “Better stinky than wet,” appeared to be her motto.

Ginger seemed to have her own guardian angel. Once she and Mom were down near Michigan Road in front of the house. Something across the road attracted Ginger’s attention, and she went tearing out onto the road before Mom could stop her. A car was coming, and it passed right over her. Bye-bye Ginger — right?

Wrong! The car went OVER her, all right; but luckily, the four wheels and the axles straddled her perfectly. The undercarriage of the car brushed her just hard enough to spin her, ass over tea kettle. Mom said later that she could see Ginger’s eyes staring at her, as big as shoe buttons, as she was spun over and over.

When the car had cleared her, the little scamp scrambled up and raced at top speed back to our side of the road. I don’t think she ever ventured into traffic again.

By the time I left for the Army, Ginger was a middle-aged dog. Being insecure as I was, and suffering from generalized anxiety disorder (we didn’t even know it existed in those days), I always wondered if Ginger really loved me the way a dog is supposed to love her boy. But I guess she did; Mom told me that for a week or more after I was gone, Ginger would lie down with her head on my bedroom slippers every day, and “mourn.” Guess she knew I was her “master,” after all.

Once when I came home on leave, I wore my dress Army uniform because bus fares were a little cheaper if you did. When I walked up in front of the house, Ginger was outside, and she started barking furiously like she always did with strangers. She didn’t recognize me in my khakis. But as soon as she caught my scent, and heard my voice, she knew who it was, and almost jumped herself to death trying to get high enough to “lick me in the face.”

She knew “her boy” was home.

Ginger had her one other brush with danger during that same period. It was probably about 1964, I was in the Army, and the folks and Ginger had moved downtown to Third and Poplar streets, having given up on the motel after 10 years of back-breaking labor. The house was one block from Main Street, and that year’s Madison Regatta parade passed by on the Friday of the Fourth of July.

Some of the numerous Shriners in the parade were firing off harmless, but very loud, pistols loaded with blanks. The loud “Bang-bang-bang!” sounds reached Ginger’s ears where she was hanging out in our yard (surrounded by a wrought-iron fence). The poor little thing was so scared by the noise that she somehow managed to squeeze between two of the metal posts, and ran off down West Third Street, as fast as she could go.

I think Dad and Mom went around in the car, looking for her, but no Ginger. I’m sure Mom cried over her loss, and Dad probably could have — but he would never have allowed himself to do that. Guys didn’t cry publicly in his day.

But then, about three days later, Ginger came slinking back, disheveled, hungry as a wolf, and overjoyed to see her family again. Where was she those 72 hours? Mom and Dad never figured that out. But they were glad to have her back, regardless.

After I had returned from the service, started working at the Madison Courier, and gotten my own place, an aging Ginger still lived with Dad and Mom. I saw her when I would go down for dinner with them, but seldom at other times. Several years passed, and she became increasingly old and feeble. By the time Mom passed away in 1970, Ginger was a very old dog. I would see her out in the yard when I visited Dad, creeping around on her stiff old legs. Dad said her vision and hearing were almost gone, her legs and hips crippled by arthritis.

Finally he called me one day. “I had to take Ginger to the vet and have her put to sleep, Sonny. She got down in the yard and couldn’t get up; probably had a stroke.” And I felt both sorrowful, and guilty, because I hadn’t paid much attention to my little Best Friend for years. Her boy grew up; career, social life, other things intruded. She was probably lonely in her last years; I don’t think Dad would let her in the house much, as dirty as she was by that time.

I always suspected that Dad liked Ginger more than he let on to. I wanted to ask him, “Dad, did you feel sorry at having to have her put down? Did you cry a little?”

But I couldn’t have said that. Not to Dad. We’d have both been embarrassed. Emotions like that weren’t part of his make-up.

But I’ll bet he missed her, just the same. I know I did.

After all, she’s the only dog I’ve had, in all my days.
— Copyright 2010 by Wayne Engle