It was sometime around my freshman year of college when I got the call. I still remember it to this day.

Cute as a button and small as a purse, Ginger was a scampering, yipping puff of hair. She was a tiny black Pomeranian, which is classified as a toy dog breed because they're small like children's toys.

Our cousins gave her to us, back when she could fit in a mug. They called her Cookie, because she loved cookies. My Mom carried her home in her purse.

My parents tell me I named her Ginger, though I don't remember doing that. I'm guessing it was a reference to Gilligan's Island, which is strange because I always liked Mary Ann better.

She had a habit of going after socks. Sometimes she'd somehow get her tiny head into a sock, then run around aimlessly trying to get the sock off. It was the weirdest sight. A little black dog with a dangling sock over her head, scrambling around and bumping into walls. Really weird.

With a face like a fox, she looked like a stuffed animal. She loved to scamper beneath your feet too. Since she's black, it was sometimes hard to see her darting around at night. So occasionally, I'd step on her. Oops.

She was a feisty little pup. Full of energy and life, she'd sometimes chase her own tail in dizzy circles. Then she'd stop and stand there, wobbling. I didn't say she was a smart little pup, only a feisty one.

Pomeranians are supposed to be good watchdogs. Ginger wasn't. Not shy in the least, she seemed to revel in attention. When friends and neighbors came by, she'd first bark (well, it was more of a tiny "yipping" sound), then run up to them and eagerly take in some free petting.

The kitchen was her favoritest place in the world. Whenever someone entered the kitchen, she'd dash right over. She was always able to eat and keep her girlish figure. I think her belly was a black hole that just sucked down food. That, or she was taking really large poops in the backyard and hiding them from us.

Ginger wasn't just the family pet though. Sometimes, after a rough day, I'd sit on the porch and Ginger would lie down next to me. There, she'd provide me with some pet therapy. She especially loved it when you scratched behind her ears.

On particularly bad days, I'd regale her of my woes. She was a great listener: wagging her tail or growling at all the right moments. Wait, did I just admit to talking to my dog? Um, forget I wrote that.

So when my Mom called me up during my freshman year of college, I was nowhere near prepared to hear it.

"I'm sorry. We had to put Ginger to sleep."

Ginger lived about 14 human-years, or 98 dog-years. Hopefully many of them were good years. Towards the end, her age was very apparent. Her sight and hearing began to fade, as she'd walk into walls (but not in a funny way) and not hear her name being called.

There were even a few agonizing moments where she'd tumble down the stairs. In her younger years, she'd eagerly leap up and down the stairs to follow us around. Later, the stairs required baby barricades to protect her. (Fortunately, she was never hurt seriously from the falls.)

Then various sicknesses ravaged her tiny body. We gave her all manner of doggie medicines and vitamins. But there was only so much we could do to a 98-dog-year-old.

When The Day came, my family fed Ginger a delicious meal, pet and played with her all morning long, then scooped her up and drove to the vet. Pet owners will tell you that their pets always know when they were being taken to the vet. No one has any idea how; they just know.

On the car ride there, Ginger didn't resist at all. But she did look up at my Mom, who was cradling her in her arms, and tears formed in her eyes. As if she knew, yet accepted it. My Mom cried when she told me this.

There's still a photo of Ginger hanging in the house. Sometimes, when I'm there at night, I swear I can feel her scampering beneath my feet. I always look down, hoping I'd see her, yipping at me or running in circles chasing her tail.

. . .

Did you have a childhood pet?