Just a dog. Huh. Not just a dog. My companion, not my pet. A chihuahua-terrier mix, my dog Ginger was everything, not just to me but to the whole family. She was more then just a dog, or just our pet; she was family.
Ginger would do everything with me; she ate little table scraps only when I would offer them to her on the plate, usually sharing what I had of dinner, even on the lean nights; she often slept with me, snuggled up against my feet, keeping them warm on long chilly nights, waking when I did; she'd even often go out with me, walking beside me as I walked around the neighborhood, though she didn't usually like to leave the house.
Everyone loved her dearly, loved everything about her, but she really was my dog; there wasn't a day when she didn't follow me around the house as I did chores.
Our happy life continued on blithely until one day when she got into someone's garbage and ate some very bad chicken. It was all downhill from there; she got very sick, and we could all tell she wasn't going to make it, so we tried to make her as comfortable as we could. Now all that could be done was to sit back and wait for the inevitable to happen.
