I have one of the best assistants in the world. Her name is Ginger.
Since I run an extremely small publishing services company, there really isn't need for a large staff. I can sharpen my own red pencils, and for the most part there isn't much need for an IT department or even a commercial shipping account. I have a relatively quiet office space and rarely have the need for anyone other than Ginger to step in and help.
Let me tell you about her:
She's dependable. She has never called in sick, and even on days when her arthritis or a stomach ailment might be bothering her, she shows up on time and ready to go.
She doesn't gossip or use the phone for personal purposes. We eat lunch together almost every single day, and I can honestly say I've never, ever heard her utter a bad word about anyone. You'll never catch her chatting it up with her mother-in-law when she should be doing something else, and I've never seen extra charges on the bill for horoscope lines or even to check movie listings.
She lets me know when packages arrive the very minute the FedEx or UPS delivery person is heading up our street. There's never a delay in my mail, no sirree.
I can depend upon her to listen to my troubles patiently. She never walks away in disgust and never tells me to get over myself. She unfailingly greets me with a smile and is rarely more than four feet away.
She works cheap. Breakfast at 6:30, a couple of cookies in the mid-afternoon, dinner at 5:30 sharp -- she is, after all, a senior citizen. Otherwise, I cover her healthcare benefits and she's fine if I throw her an occasional bone. She only takes a few bathroom breaks during the day, but honestly that works for both of us, since I should really get up from my desk more often.
I just wish she had thumbs and could read.
Ginger is a Pit Bull. We adopted her when she was six months old, at a shelter where we'd gone even though I thought I wanted either a beagle or a chocolate labrador. We knew nothing much about pit bulls except for their reputation, but she was adorable so we took her anyway and educated ourselves.
It wasn't easy to keep Ginger. My daughter lost most of her playmates on the street because one of their mothers pronounced Ginger (who was sickly and under 30 pounds when we got her) a dangerous animal. Suddenly several people around us, some dog owners themselves, claimed to have a fear of dogs. We had to put up a fence in the middle of our back yard to keep her from hurting herself running through the rose bushes on one side when the next-door neighbor's dog used to tease her. And while Ginger loves humans (there's only ever been one she didn't like -- and I got a real creepy feeling from him myself), she didn't like that neighbor's dog. There was a day when the police were called because both dogs got loose, and the neighbor's dog bit me in fear once I'd disengaged his ear from Ginger's mouth. Ginger came out of that badly too, with people beating her with sticks and shovel handles. And I won't try to absolve her here -- but when it's in the nature of a little dog, even a tenacious terrier, to go after something, the outcome is likely to be far different from when a dog of Ginger's breed, at 70 muscular pounds, does. The neighbors who owned the other dog, by the way, understood. They loved her too.
She is the smartest animal we have ever shared a home with, and that's saying a lot -- because of her breed we were required to take her to obedience classes. Ginger not only learned those commands; she understood "Go Home", "Wait", and "Walkies?", and pretty much anything else we'd say. (So when I say she doesn't gossip, that's a very good thing.) The few times she got out of the yard, I discovered that it was far more effective to yell "Carrot!" rather than her name, since she will pretty much look for them, even if she seems to be in a coma, in the next room, in the middle of the night, if you open the refrigerator door. You could be up at three a.m. and Ginger could be upstairs and (you think) out like a light, and when you open the fridge to put together lunch for the next day there's suddenly a large square head under your armpit trying to nose open the vegetable drawer.
Why am I telling you this?
I don't know, really. I still burn over that ignorant woman convincing other parents to completely exclude my then four-year-old child from playing with theirs because of a puppy. I get incensed over irresponsible and hateful people who abuse these dogs and condition them for their own sick purposes -- and just plain dumb people who let their own pets run free and untrained. My pit bull won't jump on you or the furniture, and she doesn't bark at you from the car window or strain off the leash to run after cars or joggers.
All I'm saying is, don't judge the book by its cover -- or the dog by its breed.
And to that former, ignorant neighbor woman? You're probably still in the same part-time job you've had for years. Ginger's moved up to executive assistant.
