Me and Ginger, my old girl baby dachshund, who’s approaching her 19th year. That would make her somewhere in the neighborhood of 85, at least.

This is a common sight morning, noon and night, though Mitch selflessly takes over the night shift. It’s much more expedient to carry her outside to do her stuff.

I may be mom, but make no mistake, Ginger is the wise one.

Among many other things, she’s taught me the joys of:

— White Castle sliders for breakfast, lunch, dinner and everything in between.

— Lebanon bologna (never encountered this radioactive-smelling slop before moving to the central part of PA), which she thinks is as lip-smackin’ good as filet mignon. Only for you, Ginger, would I get anywhere near the stuff.

— Grazing and rolling around in the grass.

— Generally being puppefied — as in, reverting back to being a 3-year-old, if only for a few moments.

Every day she’s with us is a blessing. So glad I’m your mom, precious girl.