In Remembrance Of Lucy...

It was June 2, 2000, and our fourteen-year-old Yorkie, Cami, had just passed away days earlier. She'd been my little buddy and constant companion since her tender age of twelve weeks. She'd seen me (and our family) through my last two years of dental school, the birth of a "miracle" child, numerous road trips between Indiana and Florida, and our subsequent move to Florida. Both my girls jokingly but seriously commented on numerous occasions, "You treat that dog better than you do me." My standard reply--"She behaves and minds me better than you do."

And on May 27, 2000, in a matter of a few short hours, she was gone from our lives. Seemingly healthy in the morning, she passed away from what turned out to be congestive heart failure even as I held her late that evening. I was bereft. Crushed. For the next several days I did not know what to do with the grief. We hadn't planned on getting another dog soon, even if at all. I felt it a betrayal to Cami, like I was saying she wasn't anything special and could easily be replaced.

I don't remember exactly who in our family suggested it, just "looking" at other puppies. Not buying, mind you. "Looking." Maybe if I could just go get my fill of petting some puppies, it would help ease the pain. So that's how we found ourselves at a south Tampa pet store, exactly one week after Cami's death, just looking at the Yorkie puppies. I also looked at a couple of Chihuahuas, but my husband put the kabosh on that right away.

"No Chihuahuas," he declared.

"Fine," I said, "we'll stick to the Yorkies then."

There were three of them in a little pen--two males and a female, all from the same litter. It has been nearly twelve years ago, so I don't recall every detail, but I do remember thinking if we would happen to get another dog, maybe we should get a little boy this time, so I focused my attention on the two little guys. Carly, in the meantime, had struck up some playtime with the little girl. In the midst of all this puppy fun, something in my heart said that perhaps the sting of Cami's death would be eased by caring for and loving another dog. I scrutinized the two little guys more closely then and wondered which one would be the best for us.

Now, here's where my memory gets particularly blurry. I think I had decided on one little boy over the other, but Carly also decided she'd bonded to the sweet little girl, and we had to get her, too. Then our two daughters presented their arguments for getting not just one but two Yorkies.

"Oh, Mom! Look at how lonely Cami must have been when she had to stay alone at home. If we get two, they can keep each other company!" was their basic pivotal point.

Jim and I tried reasoning, "But two dogs means twice the food, and double vet bills, etc., etc.," which in hindsight is a stupid argument to have with two girls who aren't paying the bills. We left that day with two puppies--one male, one female.

Lucy's name was easy enough to choose; Ernie's was more difficult. Their official names--for which we never sent in the AKC paperwork--were Lucena Isabella and Ernst Gustav. It helps to have official names to open up a plethora of nicknames when you're bored with calling them the same old thing every day. Lucy was invariably Lu, or Lulu, or LucyBell. Poor Ernie; the only nickname we came up with for him was ErnieGus. But over the years, they also learned to come to "Puppies" or "Babies."

Within a week after bringing them home, we noticed that Lucy didn't walk right. It wasn't evident from the front, but when you followed her (especially with Ernie walking beside her), you could tell something was off. We took her to the vet, who informed us that she had "lateral patellar displacement," meaning her kneecap was shoved off to the outer part of her kneejoint instead of directly over it where it should have been. You know the next question--what'll it take to fix it? Translating to, How much is this going to cost? An orthopedic doggie specialist informed us it would be $1000, but she couldn't guarantee the surgery would be a success. She said that Lucy didn't seem to have any pain and was getting around alright on her three good legs, but over time, she'd develop problems. The pet store had a guarantee on their animals and they told us we could bring her back. Of course, that meant they'd put her down since she was damaged goods.

Lucy had only spent a week in our home but already won over our hearts. Her tail wagged more than any dog I'd ever seen. She just seemed so happy all the time. Ernie was the rambunctious one, all boy, but Lucy was the sweet one with joy oozing out of every doggie pore. There really was no decision. We would keep her, bum knee and all.

So now, three months and five days short of twelve years, she has left us. Just like Cami, things seemed absolutely fine in the morning, but by that afternoon and evening, we knew that something was wrong, and at 8 o'clock, she had her first seizure. I was holding her in my arms and knew immediately what was happening. Every two hours after that, another seizure would grip her little body. By the next morning, Sunday, we decided we had to get her to the emergency vet. Surely the doctor could do something for her. Since we didn't have the funds to run any of the tests, the doctor told us that, based on the sudden onset and recurrence of the seizures, her educated guess was that Lucy had a brain tumor and the seizures would only get worse. She kindly but strongly suggested that we go ahead and put her to sleep. I couldn't accept the diagnosis. Lucy was laying in my arms and looking up at me with her sweet brown Eeyore eyes. How could I look into those same eyes and watch as life left her little body? We decided to take her home.

Five hours passed with no seizures, and we even got her to drink some water. During that five hours I started to hope that maybe the vet had been wrong and Lucy would snap out of it, while another part of my mind knew we had little time left with her. Jim and I decided that if she seized again, we would hold her through the night, and on Monday morning, take her to her regular vet to have her put to sleep. I refused to lay her down, constantly holding her in my arms as I stroked her little head and body, kissing her over and over, telling her how much I loved her and how much she had meant to me over the years. Jim held her, too, telling her the same things. We thanked her for her bravery in protecting us and for her unconditional love of us and all our imperfections.

Exactly five hours after we brought her home from the vet, she seized again, only this one was way worse than any of the others. When she came out of it, she mustered enough strength to nestle into my neck, where she stayed for an hour until the next horrible seizure hit her, lasting a whopping thirty minutes. After it was over, she looked at me again, too weak now to even raise her head when I shifted her in my arms. We had her wrapped in beach towels because with every seizure, she lost bladder control. Without a word to my husband, I laid Lucy on the bed, changed out her soiled beach towels to fresh ones, then got up to get dressed.

"I can't do this any longer," I sobbed. "It's not fair to her. As much as I don't want to lose her, we're losing her anyway. She's been by my side every time I was so sick; I have to do this for her. We're taking her back and ending her suffering."

The entire time I'd been holding Lucy in my arms, I'd been praying that Heavenly Father would just take her. As I sat in the car on the way back to the vet's, I told Jim I had a strong conviction that this was the right thing to do. He agreed. Just before pulling the car into the parking lot, Lucy began her final seizure. Upon entering the office they ushered us back quickly to a room and took her from us to insert a cannula for the medications, then brought her back. I held her in my lap. The doctor was so kind as she explained what each medication did when she injected it into the little port. Lucy was still in the middle of that last seizure. I felt relief that those sweet little eyes would not be staring at me in condemnation. She was not aware of anything going on around her. After a minute, the vet listened for a heartbeat but there was none. She left us alone with Lucy's little body for a long while so we could take turns holding her and say our final good-byes. One of the techs returned and took her again to place the body in a little sturdy cardboard "casket," which we took Lucy home in.

The next morning, Monday, we buried her in the flower bed.

Two days have now passed since her death and the void in my life is almost unbearable. I think I'm fine and I've accepted it, then the pain hits so deeply that it's overwhelming. Ernie continues to search for his sister in each room, and smells her scent not only all over the house but also whenever we take him outside to potty. He didn't nap at all yesterday. Last night, he slept beside me all night, mostly under the covers. He still hops down off the bed and runs to the bedroom door, sniffing at it as if she's waiting for him on the other side. Today he napped, but I think it's more out of depression than anything. His little sister is not here to bark alongside him when he hears a strange noise, nor is she there as he wanders out in the yard. Whenever they laid down on a blanket together, they were always touching, many times with his head laid across her back. He doesn't understand where she's gone and why she's not here. Jim and I do our best to give him more loving and tell him over and over that she's not coming back. I can tell, though, he doesn't especially want our loving; he wants her here.

Lucy was never as independent as Cami or Ernie. There was always such a joy and sweetness that exuded from her. She never tired of me picking her up and loving on her. If she was laying on a large pillow beside me and I gathered her up and cuddled her to me, she would fall asleep in my arms or on my chest and lay there for hours. For the past year or so, she'd lost the strength in her back legs to jump up on the furniture, and her one good back leg seemed to have given out on her so she no longer walked on three legs, but waddled on the back two. It broke my heart to watch her waddle, so I started carrying her outside to go potty, then would pick her up and carry her back in when she was done. She would whine for me to pick her up so she could be on the sofa or the bed beside me. In the middle of the night, if she had to get down off the bed to use the papers or get a drink of water or a midnight snack, her whine to get back up on the bed would wake me up.

Over the past two to three years, we had wondered which dog might go first, and secretly hoped that it would be Ernie because we knew he would be a basket case if she passed before him. As much as Ernie loves all of us, he really loved her. But Lucy was more of a people dog, and I was her person. She was by my side constantly, either laying on a blanket we'd place on the floor by my office chair, or on a soft pillow beside me on the sofa or in bed, or if there was any way possible, she was on my lap. Since going on medical retirement last May, I've been home almost all the time, and Lucy has always, always, been by my side. This makes her loss just that much more difficult for me.

I hope she's incredibly happy right now. I wonder if animals are confused as to what's happened when they pass, and if they look for their masters. Or do they possess that sure knowledge that lets them know they're in a much better place and will see us again? One thing I know for sure--she's whole and healthy and able to run and jump. The relief she felt at being released from that severely weakened body must have caused her to run with even more joy. I hope she knows the grief I felt at having to make that decision, but that I loved her enough to let her go. And when I meet her again on the other side, I expect her to jump into my arms. Right alongside Cami and all the other beautiful, loving pets I've had over the years.