I had to say goodbye to my beloved Lucy Lou after 14 years of her steadfast presence. Today, I honor her here — the only way I know how.
It was near the end of 2004 when my dad told me his dachshund, Sissy, had had puppies.
“When are you gonna come take one?” he’d ask me about once a week until I relented. I figured at age 24 that I was pretty much an adult and that it was about time I had a wiener dog of my own. I never even considered another breed. I’d grown up with wiener dogs, as had he. So on my visit home that Christmas, when the puppies were 8 weeks old, I chose the little girl with the white star on her chest — the only female in the litter — and a pink nose to boot.
She was named “Lucy” for my favorite Beatles song, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” and I promptly introduced her to the namesake track on my CD player as we drove home to my small apartment in McAllen, Texas — just this tiny puppy and I — not knowing how much we needed each other.
There, she’d spend the first year of her life nibbling my toes, shredding my shoes and following me from room to room, offering a wet nose and a warm snuggle during a particularly isolating bout of depression. I had no idea then how many more times she’d see me through a fog.
It wasn’t long before we moved to New York City and Lucy adapted quickly to the concrete jungle, winter snows and subway rides.
She was my solace during countless life transitions, and that cross-country move was no exception, throwing me curveballs in the form of big-city culture shock, financial stress, unexpected homesickness and a painful break-up.
We returned eventually to Texas together, where she’d spend the next 11 years seeing me through life in Austin, starting with a major career change, a couple of questionable relationships, layoffs and a death in the family. My 13-pound pup may as well have been a hundred-year oak, always holding ground for the both of us, and forever revealing her eccentricities.
Lucy was the only dog I know who adored baths, oddly eager to be doused with water. It wasn’t uncommon for me to walk into the bathroom, turn on the light, and find her sitting patiently on the bathmat, forgetting that I’d said the word “bath” aloud 20 minutes earlier and triggering this very move. I can still see her long wiener-dog body in the tub, nose to the sky and eyes closed, letting the water wash over her face like rain.
Lucy was known to sunbathe by the window, seeking out warm patches of light for midday naps. Her favorite snack was a crunchy carrot. She loved pulling the fuzz off of tennis balls and would often look up at me with a lime green beard, cocking her head in confusion at my laughter. She enjoyed scrambled eggs on Saturday mornings. And she was laser-focused on decimating any toy with a squeaker, leaving a trail of stuffing in the aftermath of her joy.
My girl knew how to enjoy her own company. And aside from one preferential Pomeranian named Sophie, Lucy was not a fan of other dogs — or other people for that matter. When I attempted to socialize her, she chose instead to run a perimeter around me to make sure other dogs and their humans knew I was hers.
Friends who dog-sat her in their own homes knew my well-meaning, but poorly mannered pup would act like she owned the place within minutes of drop-off, trotting around like a queen, taking over beds that didn’t belong to her and stockpiling toys that weren’t her own. I think she took pleasure in embarrassing her mama as punishment for leaving her behind to travel. But whether I was gone for four days or four hours, Lucy always welcomed me home with the enthusiasm of an over-caffeinated army of soccer moms. She was an unabashed licker and she loved me as much as I loved her.
By the time we met and married Mr. Wonderful, Lucy started to slow down, as though she knew her tour of duty was coming to an end. She served me loyally for over a decade before her body started to give out.
My sweet girl defied multiple spinal injuries before succumbing to partial paralyzation, but we opted to extend the quality of her life for a few years with a pair of spiffy new wheels I often referred to as her chariot.
Yet as handi-capable as she was, I could see that Lucy eventually became stuck in a cycle of re-injury, pain, and anxiety that just wouldn’t resolve. I hated keeping her hopped up on meds every day knowing her quality of life wasn’t going to improve any further, so I made the gut-wrenching decision to say goodbye to her after 14 years of the good life.
My heart never felt more exposed than it did when I stroked her head on her last day as she took her last breath. Mr. Wonderful and I stayed with her for a long time — in disbelief at the loss of this little dog that took up so much space in our hearts.
Having a soft heart in a cruel world is courage, not weakness, I’m told. But grief can be suffocating when my mind recalls the image of her tiny eyebrows rising every time I walked in the door. And sorrow surfaces in the absence of her presence. When the clicking of her nails can no longer be heard on the hardwood floors. When I wake up on auto-pilot, ready to fill the food bowl that’s no longer there. And every time I walk by the nook where her bed used to lie.
If vulnerability is the birthplace of change, then Lucy’s last gift to me is an appropriate dress rehearsal for motherhood as I anticipate the arrival of my daughter in a couple of short months — a terrifying and beautiful transformation that I know will crack me open even wider still. It’s the first life-changing transition I’ll weather without my wiener dog-shaped sails.
Goodbye, Lucy Lou. You will always be my sunshine.