I lost my executive assistant this weekend.
She'd been with us for over a decade. We got used to each other's habits, frustrations, and joys. She left her toys and sweaters lying around and I sometimes tripped over her cushion on my way through the living room, or over her pretty much anywhere in the kitchen. Or on my way out of the bathroom. Or getting out of bed. I left stuff lying around too. Ginger never complained.
For a month or so we thought she might have a virus, or maybe she'd gotten some bad kibble. But once we took her to the doctor, things were made painfully clear. She had numbers on her liver enzymes that were higher than any all three vets had ever seen. When I asked if there was anything I shouldn't feed her, thinking of her carrots and her propensity for tasting anything we made, I was told, "You give her anything she wants now." It was the "now" that did it.
We didn't even have three weeks after that, but even up to the last day, she managed a small wag when we came in. She came to have her ears scratched, or her back rubbed, even though those things might have hurt against her failing body. I really believe she did those things for us; that she knew we needed that contact.
On Sunday my husband took her outside. After a few wobbly minutes she just lay down in the yard. She closed her eyes and took in the sunlight.
We called the vet. We wrapped her in her blanket and put on classical music in the car (because she liked classical music -- trust me), and put her on the big front seat in the Camry.
We have always told people she was the smartest dog we ever had. She grasped almost everything we said, I think. It was probably just a matter of anatomy that she couldn't talk back. We all figured out ways to communicate. We said our good-byes to her, hoping she understood what we had chosen to do, and the vet came. Ginger went to sleep with her head in my hands and her heart under my husband's. It took us a little while before we could gather ourselves and go back outside.
"Look at that," my husband said as we came out into the bright Sunday afternoon light. Without our dog.
A few feet away, there was a car. The license plate read "ILVMIPIT." I love my pit.
She knew. It felt like an answer. It felt like she'd found her own way to say she got it. She loved us too.
