(This is perhaps self-indulgent, but it is born of love.)
Lucy the dog, our companion for eleven years, embarked on her last journey Sunday morning. She was a big rescued dog of indeterminate age and ancestry. She was found tied to a sidewalk pole, where she had been left unattended for three days. She had a hernia that was repaired, but she was frightened of humans, evidence of abuse by some useless human animal. With one blind eye and a wart on her face she was not an attractive dog – people always commented on how cute Alfred was but said nothing about Lucy. But she was beautiful to us. She got used to us and became Alfred’s constant companion. In her later years she suffered from a torn ligament and arthritis, but with pain killers life was still good, if considerably slower. Last week she suffered from a bleeding nostril of unknown cause, but it seemed to be getting better, when she began having serious trouble getting to her feet and difficulty sleeping. We needed to come to the terrible decision and perform our last act of love for her.
It seemed harder to see Lucy off than had been the case with Alfred, probably because she was the surviving dog and for all her leg problems still seemed to be enjoying life. Her ashes will also be placed by a tree planted for her, next to Alfred’s, and they can in some sense be together again.
I have already written about the meaning of pets and the nature of grief – see “Grief: Alfred” (2013/11/01) – and will not repeat it all here. Suffice it to say that like Alfred she was a member of our family, as important to us as any child, and the grief is very, very real. Like Alfred, she will be remembered so long as Denise and I are alive.