My dog's name is Ginger. And I did not name her. On more than one occasion, my former landlord grimaced at the name's bimbo connotations, mentioning it was no big deal to change it. I didn't like her name either. But having just adopted her, I felt guilty about stripping her of her identity at 35 (5 human years x 7 dog years), even though her brawny physique was ill-suited for a Toy Dog's title. I mean she wasn't a puppy anymore, being snatched out of the litter by a capricious first-time mom wanting to try out her book of baby names. She was approaching mid-life and had earned the right to bitch about something. So it may as well have been her first name. But my landlord insisted that Rescue Dogs, orphans thrust into indiscrimination, will answer by any name to anyone who feeds them.

Nevertheless, Ginger remains Ginger. Although not exactly rescued, she still qualifies as a Rescue Dog. Her owner adopted her from Bark Avenue Pet Resort as a puppy, kept her for a couple of years, and then returned her. Perhaps she should be more appropriately called a Return Dog rather than a Rescue Dog. Ginger is a Shepherd mix. She's forty pounds fit with a shiny tan coat.

All through young adulthood, I idealized the notion of getting a dog. I thought it would make me happy and push me closer into domesticity. No kids, no house, no spouse. At least get a dog, I thought. I fantasized that my dog would curl up in my bed, eat my table scraps, or frolic in the yard all day long. But as reality would have it, Ginger sheds too much hair on my sheets, only begs for more when offered leftovers, and rolls around in the dirt as if it were an on-demand Swedish massage. So she's been banned from any and all pleasurable activities that result in more messes for me to clean up. I'm not sure if Ginger makes me any happier, but she does demand that I be accountable to something outside of myself. And for that, we have a special relationship.

Perhaps one of my most memorable moments as a new parent was during our first Christmas together when she managed to almost polish off the turkey that was sitting on top of the kitchen counter. Luckily, my niece witnessed the beginning of the massacre and we were able to salvage most of the flesh, gently rinsing off the questionable parts. My mother ensured that the event did not make its way into the dinner table conversation. And no one ever complained of food poisoning during their turkey comas to follow. Ginger still gobbles up the counter remains occasionally, but I have gotten better about remembering to move the sandwich fixings out of her reach after lunch.

I guess beyond the food theft, carpet stains and barking before noon, I've enjoyed my experience as a dog owner and been amazed by how loyal my dependent is. Wherever I go, Ginger's under foot. Ready to go on a ride. Ready to go on a walk. Ready to defend my honor to the yard guy. Why she does it, I just don't know. I really don't deserve that kind of treatment. But when I peak over the end of my bed each night, there she sleeps, close, unconditionally.