One day in February, 1994, my ex-husband and I drove north to Sacramento to meet a dog. Once there, we rang the bell and the first face we saw when the door opened was a blue merle Sheltie. It might be an exaggeration to say that we fell in love that minute, but it wouldn't be far from the truth. About an hour later, she climbed into our car and never looked back.
We named her Lucy. Her original name was Louise, "Weezy" for short, but it didn't really seem to suit her, or us. She soon settled into city life; waking up early to take a drive to the park, sleeping all day while we went to work, and greeting us at the window as we climbed the stairs to the front door. She discovered the joys of chasing a tennis ball for hours at a time. She won the hearts of nearly everybody at the park, and quickly learned who had the treats in their pockets. She would make a bee-line for those people and sit expectantly at their feet for her prompt reward.
She made special dog friends and special enemies, too. A house around the corner from ours had two dogs that would always bark at her through the window. Every time we rounded that corner, Lucy would take off, charging her way to bark furiously at her "enemies". We never met those dogs, but they, and Lucy, always gave us a laugh.
Eventually, my ex and I split up, and he graciously let me keep Lucy. It must have been hard for him, but he knew that she was ultimately my dog. Lucy and I ended up moving to Canada, where a whole new life awaited us. There, she became a "tough Canadian dog", revelling in snow and Timbits. She made new friends and new enemies and turned her new daddy into her slave.
Lucy loved her ball and would play for hours, even dropping it on Grant's lap when he tried to take nap. She would sit up, nose out the window when we drove through Tim Horton's, jealously watching to make sure we didn't forget her Timbits. She protected us from evil squirrels outside the window, and evil kitties inside the fireplace. She reminded us what time it was, as long as it was supper time. She hated to get wet, but would attack the stream of water from the hose furiously. And whenever we asked, she would do her "Happy Dance" or collapse to the floor at the sound of "Bang!".
Last March, she turned 16. She had begun to slow down, with arthritis in her hips. She didn't chase the ball anymore, but new games were created and her joy in life continued. Over the summer, her appetite waned, and we took her to the vet. A few new meds and she rebounded enough to enjoy her summer, although her age was suddenly more obvious to all who saw her.
I love to read stories about beloved pets, but the truth of all of those stories is this: eventually the dog or cat dies. We cannot escape the fact that our animal companions do not live as long as we do, and the price we pay for loving them so dearly is to see them in their end days. And our responsibility is to ease those days as much as we can.
Friday afternoon, we took Lucy to the vet for the final time. I held her and whispered to her as she took her final breath. We cried in each others' arms and said goodbye.
She was the best dog.
Labels: Pet tails
