Four dogs have owned me.
As a dog-loving guy, that’s not many.
And yet each has taught me about life, death, scary words, relationships, and the ways of God.
(All four have been girls. I wonder what that reveals about me?)
Ginger was first. I was a tyke, age-wise still in single digits. I probably whined for weeks (or months), begging for a dog. We made a family decision to have one and the next major hurdle involved naming our furry future. I wanted Ginger and—though memory is unreliable—I believe my older sister suggested something else. We voted, and somehow in that then family of four, Mom swung the election in my direction.
A Chihuahua/terrier mix, Ginger was cute like the proverbial button. Alas, here’s the hard lesson of childhood, of enthusiasm meeting reality: I did a poor job of caring for her. I’d forget to feed her and Mom or Dad had to remind me. Picking up the smelly “objects” deposited in the backyard was often accomplished . . . tomorrow (aka, the day of the week that never dawns). I was good at playing with Ginger, not so good with the short list of other chores. Continue reading →