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She lived through World War II, a brother's death in infancy, the loss of her sister to Multiple sclerosis and her mother to pancreatic cancer, but the worst year of my mother's life was the year my father retired.

After 40 years of struggling to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table, my retired parents, like so many from their generation, found it difficult to remember what brought them together in the first place so many years ago. My brother and I watched them drifting farther apart from each other, and closer to the uselessness they both so feared.

Rescue came in the form of Ginger, a 10-pound, snub-nosed, snorting, drooling, rocket-powered Boston Bull Terrier with a lolling tongue that seemed too big to ever fit into her mouth. She was sheer stubbornness and intelligent mischief personified. A family friend could no longer keep the dog. She attempted a fast palm-off on my parents. My mother resisted. My father jumped at the chance. After 65 years of being around animals, Ginger was the first pet he ever had that was really HIS.

The change in my parents' lives was instant and dramatic. Suddenly, they had some common ground again. Pop didn't know much about caring for a dog. Mom, who'd always done the job for the family pets, was happy to impart her guidance. Pop loved having something to do again. Mom enjoyed the company of a canine without the responsibility of caring for it.

One day, we found Mom sitting on the couch laughing so hard she could barely breathe while Pop wrestled with Ginger on the floor trying to get her to swallow a pill. We knew they would be alright.

We always joked that it would be hell if Ginger died before Pop. As fate would have it, he never had to face losing her. In the first months after my father's death, Ginger's impossible tongue washed away the tears and longings of each of us who missed him so desperately. She became our living connection to Pop, somewhere we could invest the love we wished we could give to him. Somehow, this little powerhouse of personality knew her role had changed from pet to conduit, from clown to healer.

Ginger, it turns out, was the last pet my parents ever had. She died a few years later, after Mom had to go into a nursing home. My mother survived my father by nearly eight years, passing away just a few months ago. I wasn't with her when she died, separated by a distance too far to travel in the short hours it took for her to slip away.

In my darkest moments of missing Mom it can seem like no human comfort can ever be enough. Then, I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine I can feel again the loving lap of Ginger's tongue on my cheeks. And I am comforted.

Learn more about this author, Viv Corridor.
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