The Mona Lisa Smile

 

"Ginger"  ~1999 - 2013

 

It had all the trappings of a clandestine drug deal: we had planned to meet after dark, in the parking lot of a remote convenience store in a nearby town.  We arrived first, and waited.  A rusty old Volvo wagon pulled up next to us.  A woman emerged from the car, wearing grimy clothes.  She had what we had come for: a young, mixed-breed dog of unknown origin that she had rescued from a “kill shelter” on the South Shore.  She had described her to us by phone as a “Miniature Golden” and had given her a name: Ginger. 

Ginger had not had the benefit of a bath – she smelled awful.  The woman handed me a filthy leash, and Ginger proceeded to drag me around the parking lot.  She was young, strong, and wild.  Untamed, almost, but clearly not aggressive.  There was a moment when our eyes met, and I swear we formed a bond.  I glanced at my wife and young daughters.  They seemed skeptical.  I said “we’ll take her.”  The woman, whom we later took to calling the Crazy Old Dog Lady, drove off.  Ginger was ours.

Ginger, we quickly learned, loved to swim.  She was drawn to the water like a magnet to a steel post. Always impetuous, she’d leap off of our boat for a swim without warning.  We bought her a doggie PFD (life vest) which actually did save her life once.  We were anchored in Wellfleet Harbor off Billingsgate Shoal, a spit of sand that separates the harbor from Cape Cod Bay.  Someone tossed a lump of bread crust, the remains of a sandwich into the water.  Ginger dove after it.  She swam the short distance to the sandbar, paused long enough to look back at us as if to laugh, then ran into the water on the Bay side, whereupon she – and I, who had donned my own vest and swam out, crossing the sandbar, to retrieve her - got caught in a rip tide.  A kindly fisherman in a skiff hauled us both out and drove us all around the shoal back to our boat.  Our little adventure found its way into the local newspaper, in a story spun to illustrate the value of PFDs for pets.

We’ll never know which dog breeds contributed to Ginger’s heritage, but they somehow came together to produce an attractive dog (in our estimation, anyway.)  Her coat was thick and golden in color.  Even in old age, it never greyed.  My wife has always said that Ginger had eyelashes with built-in mascara, and a Mona Lisa smile.  We never knew what she was thinking, or what she’d do next, but she always seemed to be having fun.

Ginger was with us for fourteen years.  The past year or so had been difficult for her. Her hind legs had all but given out, her vision and hearing had diminished, and she panted heavily most of the time. She was on multiple meds to alleviate other ailments.  Still, there was that “smile.” I imagined, and still do, that her spirit was very much alive.  And so it was that we agonized for months over what to do – whether to “put her down” (God, I hate that expression.)   Yesterday, the decision was made.  With our family gathered around a stainless steel operating table in a veterinarian’s office, we said goodbye.

Now, having the perspective of a day’s hindsight, I’m left still wondering whether we did the right thing.  All I really know is that I miss her presence.  We were lucky to have had her, and given her rocky start in life, I'd like to believe she was lucky to have had us as well.

There is nothing unusual about this story. This was not the first time we’d euthanized an ailing pet, nor will it likely be the last. Countless others have faced the same dilemma and have lived to tell about it.  If there’s anything surprising here, it is this last point:  I’ve been literally overwhelmed by the number of sympathetic and supportive comments generated by my simple, five word Facebook post yesterday, announcing Ginger’s demise.  Grieving the loss of a pet, it seems, strikes a powerful chord with many people.  At some level, we had been thinking we were kind of crazy for being so emotionally attached to an animal; but as it turns out, if we’re crazy, we’re certainly not alone.  Oddly, there is comfort in that.  So, to all of our fellow crazy pet lovers, including the Crazy Old Dog Lady whom I imagine must be resting in peace somewhere herself by now, thank you.