Ginger's Death

It has been approximately 3 weeks that my beloved Ginger left this world.

It first began on Sunday January 8, 2012 when she of all the sudden appeared depressed. It wasn't the first of occasions that she appeared this way, in fact, in multiple occasion. For instance, last year she was very fragile and couldn't move much. Often when we touched her or brought her up into our arms, she would let escape a short screech of pain. Of course it happened to pass, but returned in my leave to Dallas, TX while completing an internship. She was taken to the veterinarian to find out what she had...It happened to be gas. My sister paid well over $300 to find out that she had gas.

Money has always been a concern with our family. Not because we lack it, but because my mother had grown up with the necessity that the mentality was actually taught to us. This is the reason we note high expenditures...and the reason we are so inclined to making shortcuts. I mentioned this because it is one of the reasons that could have contributed to her most unfortunate death.

Nonetheless, her decline started as if she had a usual mal-condition which resembled to when she had gas, so we though little of it. It wasn't until three days later that she started puking that we started to take notice. Not that I am making an excuse, but due to having school, I did not get a real chance to notice what was truly happening. My parents usually don't come during the week, so the dogs are usually by themselves for most of the day.

On and on she puked, often when she drunk water. We believed it was because my mother fed her some chicken that potentially could have gone bad and that she was just experiencing the effects of bad digestion. Towards at the end of the week, she displayed extremely acute symptoms such as exhaustion and loss appetite. We began considering taking her to the vet, but most money frequently became the subject at hand and the belief that she was just going through phase that soon would be over with...

By Thursday, we were convinced that she was dehydrated and began to feed her insulin. We used a syringe to feed her, but she puked it back out minutes after. We were all concerned with her condition as she had been ill, now, for 5 days. It was on Friday, that everyone mustered the courage to take Ginger to a veterinarian. Once we took her, we were informed that because she was not spayed, she now experiencing a critical phase. Apparently, I very common complication for dogs that don't get spayed -- the ovaries begin over-producing estrogen and cause many chemical imbalances such that cysts begin to form. Ultimately, the uterus begins to fill with toxic-pus that if imposed on other organs, could result in a fatal consequence. Of course, the options we were provided were to get an emergency surgery to remove both the uterus and ovaries. The worst of it all is that the surgery was dangerous and it was a possibility that she could have died during the operation.

This seemed unreal for my brother and I. My Ginger, although exhausted and tired, did not seem as if she was dying. She could stand up, but could not walk. Risking killing her in a life-changing, possibly painful surgery, I just couldn't do it. Although the latter option wasn't best either. We decided to take her to another veterinarian to get another opinion. We came back to our house to determine the best course of action. Everyone in distress, we settled with taking her to Juarez, where expenditures shouldn't be an issue (I feel so ashamed, you can't put a price on my Ginger's life), where if she needed the surgery it could be duly handled.
My father didn't want me to accompany him during his trip over there due to all the violence going on there...I hate it when people force you to their content

Nonetheless, it was then and there that I last saw my beautiful Ginger. In my arms I was holding with a towel repleted of acid and puke, wrapped around my dog. Holding her as if she was my child, was rocking her up and down, hoping that it would sooth her and make her think that everything was alright. I look straight onto her eyes, hoping that she believes what I believe. That everything is going to be alright and that she will be alright in no time. I terribly dread not having kissed her one last time before she left. I was afraid that my father would not have been able to provide for the care she needed while transporting her to Juarez, because he in fact would have been driving the car. I placed her as delicately as I could on the passengers seat of my father's volkswagon, hopeful and thankful to my father for overgoing with this important task of helping one of beings I loved the most in this entire world.

I closed the door, after equipping my father with all the studies and scans that were performed. He backed out and left. I watched him turn the corner, and out he was. There we were, my brother and I, outside my house, standing still. Were we really experiencing this? We stood aimlessly in our driveway, looking at the sky, floor, birds. This was the last time, I knew, I would get to see my Ginger in a while, and that I may have to accept her death.

A couple hours later, I made my way over to my grandmother's. I kept on thinking that if she does happen to die that it'd be alright, because that is what life is. You live and die. I didn't picture myself crying or being overwhelmed with her death. "It's part of life, accept it already, no point in dragging yourself down..." I told myself. Logically it made sense. Everyone else at my grandmother's house seemed concerned or at least curious to what was going to happen. I really hoped they felt what I felt at that time. I know that I had the closest tie to Ginger, but I expected more concerned faces.

Nonetheless, that same afternoon, my father reached me by cell phone to notify me that Ginger's prospects were not looking to good. He had visited another veterinarian with a reputable facility and was informed that euthanasia was an option. I was terrified of that word, I did not want to hear. "Ginger, please survive" I said to myself. My brother and I gave him our consent  for the surgery. Strangely, minutes after, we receive another call from my father notifying that he had visited, yet another veterinarian which offered him a more optimistic outcome. She would undergo hydration, anti-bacterial to help out with the renal-failure she was experiencing due to the tremendously high concentrations of Nitrogen in her body, and later would later receive the surgery and later recuperation. Enlightened to hear the news, I spread the news. I slept well that night.

It was on Sunday that we were notified that she had undergone the surgery and that it was a success. Now it was just a question of the kidneys being able to filter out the anesthesia that she was induced for the surgery.

I went to work on Monday January 23, 2012 that I was notified by a text message from my father that Ginger had passed away shortly after midnight. I was told that at least she died "peacefully" and "without pain" since the anesthesia never being able to be filtered out of her blood. I cried then and there, lost my train of thought all day. Everything seemed surreal. I did not feel like she died, last time I saw her she was fine. I carried out my day depressed yet incapable of accepting it. Perhaps my parents were trying to pull a joke on me. Maybe they are getting back at me for being such a hassle on those moments caring for Ginger. I don't care as long as she was alive and well. My parents called me by I neglected to answer. How could they do this, they don't know how I feel. Leave me alone, I said! Only my brother and I know how we feel. LEAVE ME ALONE!

My father arrived that day. He questioned if I blamed him for her death. I logically answered no, and believed so, but my feelings kept on telling me that she should have treated Ginger better. My father is notorious for having treated Ginger with such cruelty. He at times taunts the dogs for amusement. It is the very reason that I was conflicted on leaving Ginger solely under the supervision of my father -- I knew she would not have receive the best of care.

Everyday after that I, search the house thinking that maybe I was fooled into thinking that she was actually dead and that in fact she was now in the house for a big-time surprise. I looked in the laundry room where the dogs frequently are. Everyday, I would see an empty space, Ginger not to be found. I was so hopeful my parent were pulling a prank on me. God I hoped that was the case.

Finally, it was Friday and my mother finally came home. She burst into tears when she caught sight of me. Ultimately, I believe she blamed her self to what happened to Ginger. My mother happens to be the dominant figure in my family. Often what she says is the law. Every time she saw Ginger, she would claim she was just a spoiled dog and that she just wanted to get attention. For this saying, everyone was afraid of upstage my mom or confront her -- she is very short-tempered and a difficult to deal with. In a nutshell, due to her disdain, the topic was often shoved to the side instead of attended to. Of course, I did not blame her. That's how she is. I should have been the one to take her to the veterinarian, when I believed it was best -- not when circumstances required it. I learned something from this -- always stand-up for what you believe, what you think, what you feel.

I was then informed that Ginger was incinerated and brought back to the United States. I was shocked! My mother, deliberately out of spite and anger, refused to help us out during our time of need. My father was the only one driving Ginger to the vet, but my mother could have assured she was taken care of. Yet she refused because she felt we left her behind during our first visit to the vet. This was an inevitability. Considering how short-tempered my mother is, the gravity of the situation, and the urgency required it was best for her not to accompany us. She would have resorted to arguing and criticizing before getting anything done. Nonetheless, it just happened to be pure coincidence that she was left behind. My brother was giving me company, my sister knew the vet's location, and my father simply wanted to escape my mother's rage that had been stirred up before we left to the vet. The primary concern at the time was getting Ginger some medical attention.

It was not until that we inquired for her assistance that we learned that she was upset over the past few events. We asked her to accompany my father for the sake of Ginger, but she DENIED! Out of spite? Madness? Perhaps Ginger should be first priority, don't you think so?

That is why I incredibly infuriated when I learned that my mother was the one responsible of incinerating Ginger. Of all people, she was the one who did not have the right of taking that decision. Ditching Ginger on the last straw! Overall, claiming an authority she DOES NOT HAVE! That's the only thing that upsets me most in this entire world! I had specifically made it clear NOT TO INCINERATE HER! I couldn't bear Ginger being reduced to some unidentifiable dirt! How could she do this to me! Out of the picture and BAM, the one decides the most important thing. Where was her involvement? Concern? Care? Not once did she express her concern before the situation had escalated to her death. It's upsetting!

Ginger was around 12 years old. She was the most beautiful being in this world! She respected me, cared for me, loved me, and grew with me. Every single of my close friends knew about her. I made sure they knew she was the most wonderful dog in the world. Hey I understand why parents keep on bragging about their children and showing their pictures to their co-workers. I loved her. She and I understood each other. I compromised as did she for each other's sake and happiness.

I remember those nights, that she would be sleeping on my bed as I was doing my homework. If I left my room for just a single minute, she would become aware of it and become unsettled. She wanted to be with me, so she would jump down the bed and follow me. "But Ginger, I'm only getting something to eat, I'll be right back." She followed me regardless, and excitedly watched me making myself a sandwich. I gladly gave her a piece of ham. After finishing up and completing the night, I prepared my bed. Tonight, I stated, you are sleeping on the dirty clothes, not on my bed because of my allergies. She was fine with it, I snapped my fingers and pointed to the closet. She got it, she then jumped onto the basket and started digging herself inside the clothes to create a cover herself just right. Turning of the lights I get in my bed. A couple of minutes later, she get out and starts moaning, begging me to let her up. I am reluctant at first, but I give in to her cries. I ask her to approach the side of my bed so I can grab her. She jumps excitedly by the side of my bed and I grab her and jolt her to the top of my bed. She then lands and begins to make herself comfy. At times, when it is really cold she is not satisfied with sleeping on top of the bed, but decides to make her way inside the sheets. Because I love her so much and trust her, I let her. Throughout the night, she snores and I tap her so that she stops. If that is not the case, she licks herself indefinitely so I snap my fingers to signal her to stop -- and she stops. In return, don't make her move if I am uncomfortable, I just make weird shapes in bed bending in the shape that doesn't disturb Ginger. She always enjoyed sleeping with to the point that she moaned whenever she did not sleep with me, just so that I would cave in.

Ginger also knew how to play hide-and-seek. Devised by my sister but perfected by my brother and I, the game involved covering Ginger's eyes and counting up to ten in English. The price: a piece of ham or cheese. My brother or I would hide somewhere in the house, and after the ten seconds were up, she was left aloose to find the us. She would search the entire house! Up and down the hallway, investigating every room in the house, completely aware of what she needed to do. We would hide in the most obscure places in the house, and with a little help, she would find us. She'd be exited throughout the whole thing, knowing what awaits her. It was great bonding time.

One of my most precious times with Ginger was when I was taking a shower. Wanting me to be with her before she fell as sleep, she waited for me to bathe. Just curious to find how much Ginger loved my asked her to come over, IN the shower, with me. Ginger was not known for her love toward water, but it surprised me to see that she risked getting wet just because I asked her. I pulled the curtain and did the smooching sound I often do to her, asking to come in the shower with me. She was hesitant at first, but the pulled through and came in the shower. I was so surprised that I immediately took her out of it hoping that she wouldn't get a cold or anything.

Of course, the stories are many with Ginger, but I hope one can understand why my ties to Ginger are closer to anyone else's, and the reason that I was infuriated with my mother's decision. How can she have violated that relationship with my Ginger and having reduced to a Folder! Yes she carried Ginger in a stinking freaking Folder! WTF! Is this what love comes in? Folders, boxes, containers???! She was supposed to be resting in the ground resting in peace, not in a fucking FOLDER!

I love you Ginger!