She said it so much better, but I have two cents to throw in....

I have this friend who recently suffered the loss of her faithful companion, Emily.

I never had the opportunity to meet Emily, but by all accounts, she was a good dog; she treated her owner well: exercised her regularly, made sure she was warm in the wintertime, and generally kept my friend company for a good many years.

Mark Twain once wrote about what he expected when he met St. Peter, and one of the things was that you were to leave your dog outside;

"Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out, and the dog would go in."

My friend was recently writing about how people deal with her particular grief. The people who offer advice have clearly never had a dog as a companion. There's a bond between a dog and his companion (I cannot bring myself to say, "owner,") that goes beyond that of a cat, or a bird, or a lizard.

You can own a lizard. Why you would want to, I have NO IDEA.

I guess I've told you that to tell you this......

My first dog was a poodle named Ginger. It was actually my Mother's dog, she met her, fell in love in the blink of an eye, and named her after the color she swore the dog was. I always thought the dog was white, but that's not a very good name for a dog. Unless that dog winds up as Editor of the Daily Planet.

Ginger was a good dog. She was a tomboy who always resented when my Mother would take her to the groomers and get that weird poodle haircut, complete with ribbon. Ginger hated that, I could tell.

Ginger liked chasing rabbits, and baseballs. So much so that Ginger almost got killed by a swinging baseball bat. She survived it, but had a strange smile after that. Oh, did I mention that I almost beat the bat swinger to death? But that's another story......

The greatest gift that Ginger ever gave me was the ability to cure a stomach ache. When I would suffer from that particular malady, I would often be forced to lie down someplace in the hope that it would go away before I died. Ginger would come up on the bed, and curl up next to my stomach, and the mere touch of the warmth of the dog would be the absolute cure-all.

We were forced to say goodbye to Ginger the summer before my senior year in high school. I went to the vet with her. I've not been able to go to a vet's office since.

That was 1979. There have been other dogs, cats, and various other creatures (but no spiders and lizards), but there's not been another Ginger. In thirty years.

The last thing I'll say here is that I was back to visit my father last January, and he asked me to do a little cleanup of some of the things that remained of my brothers and I around the house. I was going through my younger brother's dresser drawers and came across Ginger's collar.

Cried like a baby.

I get it. I've always gotten it. And those who DON'T get it are missing something vital.

Hugs to you, my friend.