Oh no, Ginger. I still can't believe you're gone.

I just found this article, "Something About Harry: Old Dogs are the Best Dogs", and I thought it was worth sharing. My favorite line: "He was the shape of a baked potato, with the color and luster of an interoffice envelope."

Even though Ginger passed away six months ago, I still think about her. I can't pinpoint the moment she became an old dog — beyond her being 10 when I adopted her, I mean. She always had the energy to bark at other dogs, bark when I put shoes on, and bark whenever someone said, "Go, go."

But the night she got bitten on her snout (in a scrap with a border collie, no less), I felt like something changed. After we got home from the clinic and went to sleep, I kept waking up. She'd have walked into the wall with her cone, too disoriented to just back out of the tiny hallway. So I'd turn her around and bring her back into my room. (I never did know why she kept wandering — what was she looking for?) The next day, after the anesthesia had worn off, she ran through my parents' house, barreling through the narrow doorways and banging them with the gargantuan cone. Fearless. In the photo, though, I think she looks a little vulnerable. To get the photo, I had to prop her up; she kept tilting to the side. Oh, Ginger.

Still, there's nothing I'd have done differently. I do think that old dogs are the best dogs.

By the way, Papa is doing fine. She gets a break this week from me telling you about her hijinx. We'll be back next Wednesday.