Lucy

This is a long post, and it ends sadly. I'm including it here because, even though it doesn't have much to do with Nora, I want to record my memories of Lucy before they start to fade away. Humor will return with the next post, I promise.

On Sunday, September 13, we said goodbye to our sweet old, mean old Lucy dog. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, and that includes childbirth.

I started volunteering at the no-kill shelter Save the Animals Foundation (www.staf.org) in 2000. I had been marinating in some sort of depression. I suppose it was post-college loneliness; I was feeling rudderless and empty. At Rich's suggestion, I found STAF in the CityBeat classifieds, and then convinced him to come along with me. We began to volunteer every Monday night, cleaning dog runs, feeding and playing with the canine residents.

Working with the dogs at STAF helped me dispense with the navel gazing and concentrate on caring about somebody else for a change. Lucy was a big part of that. She had been found wandering in Evanston several years earlier. Skittish, snappy, and unnerved by direct eye contact, she was the shelter's "ringer"-- the dog introduced to unsuitable families to convince them that maybe they didn't want a dog after all. But longtime volunteers insisted that she was a gentle soul who was just waiting for the right person to come along.

Something about Lucy resonated with me. Always a sucker for a sad case, I started spending extra time with her, just sitting quietly in the yard. At first I didn't even try to pet her, just sat on the ground with my eyes averted, trying to radiate calm, and let her stalk around, sniffing me. Soon (weeks, we're talking) she got comfortable enough to sit exactly one arm's length from me. I could reach out and just barely stroke her back with the tips of my fingers. Then it was the palm of my hand, and then I was able to rub her soft ears. Finally, one Monday, I sat down on a bench in the yard and she hopped up to sit next to me. I was hers, and she was mine.

Three months after I started volunteering, Lucy came home with me. I was only 27 when I adopted her, and she was 4. I wasn't dog-savvy enough to help her fully overcome her fears; she always feared strangers, startled easily, and grew agitated at extended eye contact from strangers. And yes, she snapped at a couple of people. Rich and I became expert at controlling her environment, rarely having people over to the apartment, always on the lookout for well-meaning but clueless dog lovers on walks.

She was worth all the trouble.

She loved me. She was constantly by my side-- or, when she was nervous or excited, swirling in circles around my feet, a brown tornado with clacky toenails. She would vigilantly watch my face, cocking her head and twitching her ears whenever I talked, as if she was concentrating on understanding my every word. When I cried, she sat with me and I found comfort in rubbing the bunny-like fur behind her ears. When I napped, she spooned with me on the futon. We walked all over Clifton together, her strange bobbed tail waving back and forth and her ears tipped forward with interest in the world. She even had a special noise she used to show affection: something like "Pffft." She only did it when she was happy. (And no, it wasn't a fart.) Every night before bed, I'd pet her head as she lay on the floor next to my bed, and she'd say "Pfft," and I'd say "Pfft," and off to sleep we'd go.

She loved Rich. Her evening walk with him was the highlight of her day, because it always ended in a laser pointer session-- her favorite thing in the world. She would skitter around after that rascally light beam, pouncing into piles of leaves or snowdrifts, never tiring. She would have gone without food for the laser pointer, no question.

She loved my mom. All we had to do was drive down my mom's street or utter the word "Grandmama!" and Lucy was awhir with excitement.

In Lucy's later years, her back problems forced us to end our laser pointer adventures, but she continued to be our serious, devoted, affectionate companion. We added another dog to the household-- Baxter, a sloppy, stinky, exhuberant shepherd-chow mix who outweighed her by about 20 lbs but quickly learned that if Lucy said "Froggy," he'd better jump.

And then Nora came along, and Lucy had to adjust to not being our number one girl any more. It was a tough transition for her, and it was made more difficult by her increasing health problems, but I hope-- and have to believe-- that she knew we loved her as much as ever.

In the end, we found a tumor, and made the wrenching decision to let her go before her suffering became too much. The vet did the procedure on a hill overlooking a clover field outside his office. I lay down next to her, rubbed the bunny fur behind her ears, looked into her eyes, and whispered "Pfft" as she faded away.

Lucy was a good, good girl, and I'm so lucky she was in my life for nine years. May everyone reading this have a friend like her.