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Ginger, a white cocker mix, is half of the dog set owned by my daughter Stephanie and her husband David. (Frodo, a Welsh Corgi, is the other half. See his story here.) We tease Ginger about being a blonde because, well, she acts like one. While her adoptive
brother Frodo is out seeing to homeland security, defending Grandmother's backyard (mine) from incursions by alien life forms, Ginger is lolling about on pillows and sofas, laying a persuasive paw on the nearest
person in solicitation for petting. However, she'll desert you in a flash if she hears the microwave timer ding in the kitchen.
Ginger is the personification of faith in action. Whenever anyone goes into the kitchen, especially to the refrigerator, Ginger will follow with rapidly wagging tail, just knowing that she's
going to get a treat. (When she's really excited, she employs what we refer to as "helicopter tail.") For some reason, she is especially anticipatory when I am cooking. Her attentive stance, her full-body trembling,
her large brown eyes totally focused on her benefactress all remind me of the televangelist's slogan, "Something GOOD is going to happen to you!" Ginger believes it so completely that it proves to be a
self-fulfilling prophecy: she usually gets a bite of whatever's cooking. And she will appreciatively eat whatever you give her.
The day that Stephanie brought Ginger to meet me about seven months ago, I took one look at her and said, "Stef, do you remember Princess?"
"Princess?" Stef said. "Yes. Why?"
So I reminded her of that piece of family history from twelve years ago. For months my two children had been begging for a pet. I was reluctant, knowing just who would wind up feeding and
cleaning up after said animal. But when my husband Steve joined in, I raised the white flag, and on a cool November afternoon we trundled off to the Humane Society to see what they had to offer.
Many dogs, for starters, enclosed all together in a large dirt pen. My five-year-old son Glenn held back, leery of all the barking, toothy animals. But my nine-year-old daughter Stef immediately
spotted the pet of her dreams: a shy, quiet puppy huddled against the fence, away from the rabble. Stef picked up the puppy and brought it to me, her face glowing. "Oh, look, Mommy. We'll call her Princess."
It was a beautiful animal, female, with soft, solid white fur. When Glenn ventured a hand to pet her, she licked him. Seeing how quiet and docile she was, I could hardly argue. Steve insisted on
looking around for form's sake, but he was outnumbered. We were soon looking for the attendant to finalize the adoption.
The terms were stiff. For starters, there was a $50 nonrefundable donation. The animal would remain at the facility to be spayed (at our expense, another $50), during which time our home and
yard would be inspected by Humane Society volunteers to ascertain our suitability for pet ownership. If we were deemed acceptable, we could come pick up the dog in about a week, after she had recovered from the
surgery. We signed.
Believe it or not, I actually cleaned house before the two inspectors came a few days later. We showed them our fenced yard and all the doggie accouterments we had rushed out and bought. The
kids were very nervous over this big test, but we passed.
The next day we got a call from the Humane Society director to come pick up Princess. "Uh, I thought she had to be spayed first," I said.
The director told me that since we were such a good fit, they would release Princess into our custody right away. "You can take her to the vet of your choice to be spayed later," she offered.
Stef and Glenn were overjoyed, and we immediately drove out to the facility to pick up the newest member of our family.
Within days, I knew something was wrong. Princess did not act like any eight-month-old puppy I ever saw. She was not just calm, she was listless. She didn't play, she didn't chew up shoes, she
didn't bark. Glenn lost interest in such an uninteresting animal, but Stef also knew something was wrong. "Mommy, I can't get her to do anything," she complained. It was true; wherever she wanted Princess to go, she
had to carry her there.
I took the puppy to our neighborhood vet, who examined her and said, "This animal has distemper. She should have been vaccinated, because there is not much I can do for her now." The vet sent us
home with medicine, promising nothing.
Once home, I called the director of the Humane Society, who vehemently denied intentionally dumping a sick animal on us. Since there was yet a remote possibility that Princess might recover,
Stef threw herself into nursing her. She fed her the medicine, talked to her, loved on her, and prayed for her.
At first, it appeared that Princess might rally. She actually began getting up from her bed to follow Stef, weakly wagging her tail. But then one day, about three weeks after we had brought her
home, Princess got up from her bed only to fall over her trembling legs. She was hardly able to stand for the trembling. And I knew that was the beginning of the end.
Her convulsions grew steadily worse so that she was unable to leave her bed and hardly able to lift her head. When Princess stopped eating and drinking entirely, Stef cried herself to sleep.
Finally, we decided the animal had suffered enough. The day after Christmas, 1990, Steve took her to the vet to have her put to sleep.
Clutching the collar we had bought for Princess, Stef cried in my arms. "Why wouldn't God heal her? I asked Him to and He didn't!"
That was a tough question. I wasn't sure what to say. "I'm sorry, Stef, I don't know why. I know it hurt Him to see her suffer and to see you cry, but, that kind of thing comes with the
territory. Animals we love get sick and die. People we love get sick and die. Think about how much easier you made Princess's last days by taking care of her the way you did."
Then she asked, "Is Princess in heaven now?"
I knew better than to respond glibly. Even in matters of faith, Stef was the kind of child who required logical reasoning. I had to back up my answer. "I think she is," I said, "because God is
good. He is a much nicer God than we give Him credit for being. Since you belong to God, and Princess belonged to you, then yes, I'd say she's in heaven."
"How do you know that?" she asked.
"There is a passage in the Bible that says even though all creation is suffering now, it will be made whole and healthy along with the children of God [Romans 8:18-25]. Since animals are a part
of creation, a lot of people think this means that animals will be a part of heaven. I agree."
She seemed to accept that, and life went on. So when Stef brought Ginger home, I got out the one picture we had taken of Princess and showed it to her. "Wow," she said. "I didn't remember that."
Does God remember the prayers of a child? Does He restore in some manner, at some time, what sin, sickness and death have taken from us? Have a look at these pictures, and you tell me.
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