It was always Eric who wanted a dog more than me. We used to joke that every time I came home from one of my work trips and there wasn’t a new dog awaiting me at home, I was surprised.
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But I fell. Hard. I fell so hard for Lucy. I fell immediately, in fact. As we waited for her in the cargo arrivals building of the airport and out she came, paws crossed, ready to love us immediately, I fell right then. Those eyes—like the sweet shape of a stuffed animal, those eyes… so sad yet so sweet. Those eyes got me first. Actually, maybe it was her eyebrows. Or what you’d call her eyebrow bones. Their animation gave those bones words—we communicated through the rise and fall of those bones. The rise let me know she was excited or she was agreeing with me when I suggested a run outside. The fall was how she told me she loved me and she was sorry that she couldn’t stay out of the garbage.
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She saved me. When I was tormented by the dissertation process, she saved me. When I fell to the ground, surrendering to defeat, it was Lucy who got to me first. She snuggled into the nooks and crannies of my physical body like a therapy dog and she didn’t beg me to pet her, she just offered up her heart to me when I needed it; just as she always did.
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Even as I write this, ten days after saying good-bye to 1/3 of our little family, I cannot stop the tears. It still hurts in a raw, terrifying way. I’ve never felt loss like this and it’s changing me.
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As I write this, I’m on another airplane, two airports away from home, trying to breathe my way through my mood and knowing that among the layers of what’s making me restless and snippy is still the loss of her; of so much of my heart. And knowing that this is the first work trip from which I will return home and not be greeted by her, which was the absolute best. No matter how late it was when my key hit the door, I’d hear the thump of her feet hitting the floor from the warmth of the bed and my husband’s body and out she’d stumble—looking a little bit drunk, with that ‘sleepy face’ as we called it—over to me, waiting on my knees, to envelop her in a hug that would instantaneously melt away the travel sludge that comes with even the smoothest of trips. And as I unpacked my bag she’d patiently wait—legs crossed in her lady-like way, letting me know that it was ok. That’d she’d wait for me because she knew that my Type-A personality wouldn’t allow me to go to bed until I was unpacked and my damn expense report was submitted. She understood and she never rushed me.
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I always thought it was ridiculous (and if I’m being honest, perhaps a bit sad) when childless couples treated and talked about their dogs like they were human children. And while we never put Lucy in a chair while at a restaurant like that couple did next to E and I years before we had Lucy, we did become versions of ‘those people’ before we even realized it. When out to dinner with friends we told stories about Lucy for hours. I sent pictures of her to my grandma, a non-dog person—and filled my letters to her with descriptions of our blond baby. I put her picture on my ‘about me’ slide that is in every PowerPoint presentation I give. It’s actually a picture of her and Eric in the car. Lucy is in the backseat but inching her way forward—as she always did—to be closer to us—so her head is bigger and closer than Eric’s in the picture and when that slide comes up and I introduce participants to the two most important ‘people’ in my life (yes, yes, I said ‘people’ here) I’d add on, ‘…in no particular order,’ with a sly smile which always solicited a laugh and exposed me as a crazy dog person within the first ten minutes of a workshop.
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I don’t know how to introduce myself now.
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Just as it hurts me the most to not have Lucy greet me when I get home from a trip, it hurts my husband the most when I’m gone and our home is empty and quiet and lonely now. It must be hauntingly quiet for him without her when I’m on the road. I hate that.
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When we had to say good-bye to Lucy—on a Saturday—I took it as divine intervention when my trip that was already booked for that Monday was cancelled. I still believe that. But I also think it was a bit of a test. How would I face my grief at home—alone—in a space that I never knew without her. On Monday I was saved by Eric coming home early but the rest of the week I was on my own. And my grief surprised me. Maybe it shouldn’t have but it did. Because it would hit me in waves—full-body waves—that brought me to my knees and racked my body so hard that at first the emotion was silent—just the shaking of my whole body, on the ground, hands covering my face—until the tears would eventually show up and would hit me so fast and so hard that my entire face swelled up and I was almost unrecognizable to my own self when I looked in the mirror.
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We always said that Lucy would be the best therapy dog. Like the ones they bring to the airport during times of stress or like the dogs I met on a flight one time, sweet labs traveling to places where students were facing a tragedy. She’d be so good at that—at holding space in her quiet, sweet way--for kids in particular. We saw her do it with our niece who wasn’t facing tragedy but who was spending the night with us for the first time. Lucy wouldn’t leave her side. Even keeping silent watch when our niece slept, sitting vigil right by her head, eyes never closing, protecting the most innocent in the house. Always.
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On the Thursday before we said good-bye, when she was starting to hurt and we didn’t yet know what it was, I returned home from book club to find her in my spot in the bed—as always. And like always, I loved on her, kissed her, and gave her the signal to scooch over as I took hold of the bedspread and started to pull it down. This move always solicited a verbal gruff from Lucy but she also always got up and moved down and over a bit to let me in. Always. And so I’d apologize to her, love on her some more, and slide in, contorting my body to fit around her, sacrificing comfort, to appease her. But on this night she didn’t move; she stayed put. Quietly. Her head was on my pillow and she faced me so I slid in, my head on the same pillow, facing her, looking directly into those sweet eyes and she put her paw on my shoulder and I pulled her in—in a hug—and we lay there like that for a long, long time and I knew that this was something. I wasn’t sure if she was telling me that it was going to be ok or that she loved me or that she wasn’t well, but I felt it. It was something. Normally she squirmed away from me when I tried to hold her face-to-face like this, preferring instead to be curled into my knees or have her head resting on my feet but on this night she was perfectly still, paw on my shoulder, looking deep into my eyes until we both feel asleep like this, my heart nearly exploding.
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I loved to run with Lucy. But it was embarrassing. I’m not as fast of a runner as her first human-mom, Sara, was and so Lucy liked to ‘cheer me on’ by holding the leash in her mouth, getting two steps ahead of me, and pulling on the leash in an attempt to get me to speed things up. Passer-bys loooooved it. (And secretly? So did I.)
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She howled at sirens. Just last night after finally returning to ‘normal life’ by spending our Saturday out on the town, Eric and I returned to our empty home and collapsed into each other’s arms when the sirens sounded and there was no Lucy to howl for us.
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