Nutmeg and Ginger were the pair of companions to a single married woman who lived her life
apart from her better half as he was a rock star musician with heavy global commitments. She was
civil service and connected to the special operations command of the nearby USAF base.
I don't remember the breeds except the coat colors of each made remembering their names easy.
The ruddy one was Nutmeg. The blond (by default) was Ginger. Neither one was large as all three of us could walk through the back door in a horizontal line.
The pups were loving to strangers and glad to have their usual routine altered to include outdoor times in between their very long ten hour days.
The parcel of land was generous, the house cozy. The homeowner had inspired a lavish garden which combined perennials, annuals, and vegetables. The blooms climbed up and over trellises.
The leaves and ivy's cascaded over fence tops and gates. Fairy lights twinkled after dark and
seemed to reflect the vastness of the starred canopy at late night. This outdoor space was indeed magical and I was glad to be able to spend the evenings outside with the dogs.
Some people keep memories in scrapbooks or in picture frames. Others tuck them deep in their hearts. This woman kept the cremated ashes of all her previous companions in highly decorative urns on her chest of drawers. In my hazy memory, these many years later, there were six in her collection.
Each pet's name was engraved and photos were included somewhere on the containers. For her, their presence was comforting.
The dogs retired each evening on top of her bed. She had added doggie steps in recent months to
allow the older one to scramble up and join her in the canopied four poster bed. I would find them there again in the early morning.
We enjoyed daily afternoon walks. Sometimes we would join the parade of other dogs and their people. No traffic to worry us as we were the last street in the neighborhood. Seems the sound of the mail man signaled it was time to go. I don't know the reason why that particular activity stirred their
curiosity. Maybe the postal worker was the nearest thing to a doggie ice cream truck. I spotted
a crowd of wagging tails as the truck stopped and reversed back up the road.
Our night time visits were extended. We settled in the lawn chairs (me on one and Nutmeg and Ginger on the other). As if on cue, the seven o'clock hour ushered in the spectacle of hundreds of fireflies. The coolness was welcome and blanketed us in a refreshing layer between stars and the
softness of the lap quilts. Dogs do what they do and flittering bugs beg to be chased. Scampering
around and through the sculpted hedges and darting one behind the other, the game ended in a tie
and guaranteed a rematch the following evening.
Being a pet sitter allows glimpses into other realities. Short term and long term jobs
were always a happy accident. I never knew what my schedule would be other than predictably busier during the holidays. Ginger, Nutmeg and I spent a single summer together. Life goes on and we never had the opportunity to reconnect. And when the stars come out these many years later and the lightening bugs buzz about my head, I remember lazy summer nights with a couple of sweet old dogs.
