Ginevra Molly Weasley

This is Ginny.  When I think about the fact that 1) someone abandoned her–or at least made no effort to find her again–on the streets of Hartford, CT, in the middle of winter, and 2) that I almost didn’t adopt her because I thought it was so crazy to bring home another dog, it gives me bad oogly feelings in the pit of my stomach.

When she is mentioned, the person being talked to is obligated to respond in loving italics, usually accompanied with squidging her nose against the aforementioned canine’s face.

“Ginny pushed the bad puppies away from the baby again today.”

“Oh, Ginny.”

“I found Ginny on the bed, curled up in the comforter that had just come out of the dryer.”

“Oh, Ginny.”

It would be difficult to express how important she is in our family. She’s that most rare of dogs, completely in tune with what would please us. She is not game-oriented like the corgis; she’s not physical like Bramble. She thinks very hard and she loves order and rules. She remembers every prohibition and enforces them with an iron fist–she will fly into a rage if one of the other dogs touches the trash, or jumps on the couch without being invited, and what she hates above all else is when dogs touch the baby. She doesn’t particularly like the baby, but she is implacable about the baby rules. I’ve seen her flatten to the ground and BOLT across the yard to furiously push aside a puppy who has the audacity to try to lick the baby.

She’s always neat, very aware of her own beauty, terribly vain about her tail, and her front feet are always pristine. She hates being wet and despises mud. She can walk on her hind legs, fetch socks, dance in a circle, leap over Honour’s arm, and many others, all of which she taught herself because she thought it would make us happy.

Even Doug, who mostly tolerates the dogs because he loves me (thanks, honey!), is completely under her spell. Last weekend at our church’s weekly supper my mom said to Tabitha, “Oh, you’re such a princess!”

And Tabitha replied, “No, there’s only one princess in our house, and it’s GINNY.”

(Honour, walking by: “Oh, Ginny.”)

My mom, appalled, looked at Doug, who shook his head ruefully.

“No, it’s really true. Last night when she ate her dinner we clapped for her.”

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