Losing One.
It seems as though we were out hiking just last week with her… how did this come about so swiftly?! One day, she simply got up a little slower, her eyes a little duller. Next, her hearing went and she began drifting to the side at times, as though intoxicated. And then, on the last days she couldn’t pull the stairs, and finally we began to find her in uncomfortable positions, unable to rise and perform even the most basic functions and we knew…
Ginger, or Gigi, came from good stock. She was the first litter runt from Jack and Daisy, two very unique Heelers owned by Chris Burmeister. Daisy, the female, was blue, and Jack was red. Daisy had a notable habit of nipping the heels of my ski boots anytime I visited the Cat Shop. Jack’s notable habit was being Jack, a high strung bossy male, tall for the breed. I believe there were six pups, two with tails, two with ½ tails, and two without. Ginger was one that was naturally bobbed. She was an unusually light reddish color, and ultimately irresistible.
Alisa and I were, in the spring of 2003, still in the ski industry; she patrolling up at Silver Mnt. (7+months pregnant with Joshua), and I was working with Steve over at Peak. We wanted a dog and knew Chris had two pups left. We took them out for a drive, hiking down by the river, and doing different things, to see which one we wanted. Both displayed intelligence and a willingness to play. But one needed constant attention, while the other could remain at a slight distance, occasionally stopping to gaze off into the forest or across the river, no doubt contemplating far more serious things than we can ever understand. This attribute alone decided it for me, and ‘Lis was already in love, so Ginger, the runt, was ours.
As she grew she developed a fierce desire to fetch and, partially raised around a border collie of my Dad’s, became very competitive and quick. Anything; tennis balls, frisbees, sticks… she loved sticks. Nothing would last very long, but sticks she seemed to especially despise, a true love/hate relationship, usually reducing them to absolute splinters within a few throws, yet still bring one the size of a toothpick back and tongue flick it at your feet, then crouch and stare up at you frightfully, expectantly. I could tell her at anytime to “go bring me a stick”, and she would, often wrenching them with great effort off the very trees from which they grew. Once, in the mountains with a 8-10 foot snowpack, I told her to do this, and she returned some time later, all proud, dragging a very long and large chunk of tree, with dirt on it! Once fixated on something, she would commit and throw herself at it with utter abandon.
She became mountain savvy at a very young age, making her first trip into the hinterland at six weeks old. Ken McAnally and I hiked into the Lone Lake basin, with the intent of introducing her to the ultimate fun. She was pooped by the waterfall below the lake, so I scooped her up and placed her in my jacket for the final climb up to and above the lake. Now, this is fairly steep terrain. About halfway to the ridge I decided it was enough for her and we stopped for a break and a snack. She watched us prepare to ski, head cocked to one side, trying to comprehend. Ken took off at a leisurely pace, while I sideslipped down maybe fifty feet and called her to me. With the most incredulous look and lots of whining, down she came, sliding on her behind, front legs and paws rigid out before her. I adjusted my position slightly and she bumped into me, lessons being learned. I loved the stuffing out of her for a few moments, then promptly set her back down in the snow and slid down another 50’. We repeated this to the lake and beyond. After that, anytime she saw the skis and pack come out, she was in.
Ginger climbed and or skied many mountains in the region in all seasons, certainly making several doggie first ascents/descents along the way, on terrain a lot of people never consider. She didn’t have the option not to as she was always with me, but I really believe she loved the thrill, the intensity of it all. While climbing a mountain (non technical, 3rd, easy 4th class), there were two ways to go about it. I could shove her up on a ledge, tell her to stay, climb up to her and repeat, or I could climb up a ways and call her to me, tapping the stone with my hand, sometimes knowing she would never make it all the way on her own. Up she would come with utter commitment, and I would reach down, out, and simply push gently on the back of her head and neck, and she could use this pressure to hold herself against the rock and continue the rest of the way, arching up onto a rocky outcrop like a mountain goat. Her trust and understanding were simply amazing. She was able to sense the seriousness of any situation and was always incredibly focused. While skiing, I could tell her to stay in a location, descend to some other point, and call her to me. Down she would come, like a missile locked onto a target, barking her heeler head off! When the conditions were deep, she would bound down with huge leaps, her bark momentarily muffled as she disappeared completely under the snow, to explode out once again, only the dark of her eyes visible and that oh so wonderful smile… no, laugh… she was laughing! That dog was so cool.
She was great with the children, all children really, and most people. You could confidently beware of the person she did not take to. Only a month or so older than Joshua, she witnessed three kids enter this world and tolerated and protected them against all comers to the end.
She loved huckleberries and would eat them right off the bushes.
Growing up around job/building sites, she loved clean up time; all those fetch sticks flying through the air drove her crazy.
She was so fast she caught squirrels. Several times she demonstrated this, and would dispatch them with a viciousness that was frightening.
A devout water dog, she accompanied us on every float trip (nothing serious), swimming or riding on the kayak, occasionally running along on the shore.
Without her, I could not have dealt with the annual bear issues here in Wallace; some years they are rather persistent.
She would load up and ride on anything, even 4-wheelers and snowmobiles, although I’d usually have to make her run a mile or two before she’d get on a sled. I think the smell and noise bothered her. She even learned how to load up on chair lifts by herself.
Gigi was a good dog and part of our family. We will greatly miss her. See ya girl, you were truly a one of a kind, and a fine example of your breed.
S.A.L. 2.18.16
