Vice President for Shipping & Receiving

The home office revolution has long since been consolidated and the virtues and liabilities of working full time in one’s residence have been well documented with stories of child care, carpooling and scheduling home repair and maintenance. Little, however, has been written about the role pets play in this scenario.

One year ago today I had to put my vice president for shipping and receiving to sleep. That day was and remains the saddest of my life. When Ginger came into my life nearly thirteen years ago I had already been working at home for eleven years. Shortly before her arrival we had just put down Benjamin, our dachshund. Piggy, our cat, remained. I did not want another dog but my wife and step-daughter were determined to replace Benjamin. I reluctantly agreed. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.

Ginger was approximately one year old when she arrived at our home and my place of business. Though already housebroken and crate-trained, she was moving into very different surroundings from those to which she was accustomed and I was apprehensive about the responsibilities. Her first home had been in South Philadelphia, a neighborhood of row houses on narrow, thickly settled streets, minimal grass or trees and lots of concrete. Now, she would be living in suburban Wynnewood, far more sylvan surroundings, with a cat and three other strangers.

While my wife and step-daughter were out of the house each day at work and school respectively not only was I left in charge of the marketing, estimating and billing for my business, I also had to feed the animals, walk Ginger and generally pay attention to both animals' needs. Piggy, being an independent feline, did not require much of me; Ginger, on the other hand, demanded a great deal and in the process became my constant companion. She slept in the office, played with her bone in the office and looked forward to the arrivals of the Fed-X, UPS and other delivery people who quickly learned that the best way to address her enthusiastic greetings was with a biscuit in hand.

Soon she even had the mailman trained. Not only had she learned to recognize the sound of his truck and the distinct noise the mailbox made when he opened and closed it, she also recognized Tony if by chance we ran into him during our midday walk. She would see him as much as a block away and pull me towards him. Normally, Ginger walked without tugging on the leash, but the sight of Tony and the promise of a biscuit were more than she could bear patiently.

The entire day was punctuated with Ginger’s needs and wants. They never were a bother; indeed, working alone at home, she was my constant comfort as well as company. More than once I would hang up the phone after a particularly frustrating conversation with a client and get down on the floor and rub Ginger’s nose or stroke her head. She would lick my hand and all would be right.

Ginger was a sheltie mix who weighed about thirty pounds. Very sweet and intelligent, she had only one fault. Whenever people arrived or departed, she barked at them, vigorously but without any malice, letting them know they were entering or leaving the herd. Once in the house she ignored company completely, but only after she had received a treat, either from them or from me. If a delivery person arrived while I was on the phone with a client, I usually hit the mute button and tried to silence her. My efforts were always futile. Finally, after years of realizing nothing would stem her loud and enthusiastic greetings, I abandoned the mute button. If my client on the other end of the phone inquired, “Is that a dog barking?”, I would reply, “No, that’s the vice president for shipping and receiving.”