One More Day with Lucy
Polly knocked on the door last night. It was dark, about 8. “Lucy wanted to come see you,” she said. Standing at her side, my black lab grand-dog looked wearily up at me.
“We were out for the last walk of the day and then she turned right up your driveway. “Did you want to see me, Lucy?” I stroked beneath her upturned chin. She stepped up and into my cottage.
I walked over to the couch and patted a cushion as I sat down “Here, sweet girl. Come sit with grandma….” Her nails clicked on the floor and then she put a black paw up on the taupe couch.
Polly helped her up and into comfort. Lucy had a difficult day behind her – little to no appetite, panting from time to time, restless, unsteady on her feet. My grand-dog has Cushing’s Disease and it has brought cancer.
Polly looks into my eyes after Lucy is settled. “I think we’re getting close to her final days.” I say nothing, but nod slightly, reluctantly. She leaves Lucy with me to visit for an hour.
We snuggle and I talk softly to Lucy as she breathes as I did during childbirth. It seems to me this must be a symptom of stress on her body. I google “panting in a dog with Cushing’s.” Yes, it’s a common symptom for several reasons, one being pain.
Costly medicine has given Lucy more than a year of quality life since her diagnosis. I feel time close in on us, and feelings of grief rise within me, Rather than let them surface, I quietly whisper to her and our Creator, “Thank you for Lucy.” Over and over and over, my gratitude is so deep for this black grand-dog who never barks.
She settles into a deep sleep and I watch, concerned by the dramatic shift. Polly returns, we talk, then coax Lucy up, help her off the couch. I hug her, look into her dark eyes, say, “I love you, baby girl,” then turn to Polly and say the same words to her.
In the morning, I walk down the driveway and see Polly’s car is gone. A knot grows in my gut. I hurry to her house, pull open the door, and call for Lucy. Silence answers.
I search each room. She is not in the house. My heavy heart slips into my gut. I walk out the door and slowly head home.
I picture Polly and Lucy in the vet’s office and wonder what’s happening now… Has Lucy had her first shot? Or the second one? I want to cry, then decide to give thanks instead. “Thank you for our time with Lucy. Thank you for so much for our time…
Lucy must have had a difficult night. I remember Lucy’s brother, Blue’s last day… Kindness, soft words, gentleness embracing him as he received one shot, then shortly after, a second.
My hands meet in a prayer position and my thumbs are under my chin. As I remember back to that day… “Thank you for Blue and Lucy. Thank you so much, thank you, thank you.”
In time Polly’s car returns. In time I slowly walk over, dreading what she’ll tell me…. She sees me. “Oh, hi,” she says. “Where’s Lucy,” I ask hesitantly.
“She’s on the deck.” ”I cannot believe my ears. But my eyes soon validate what Polly has said. I walk over to my grand-dog and hug her tenderly and hugely.
Lucy melts into the hug. I cannot yet speak. Later I will tell Polly my story. But, for now, I am silently saying, “Thank you. Oh, thank you so, so much for one more day with Lucy.”
And to ponder just a little further, is not that so true for each of us every day? So, my dear reader, I also want to say to you, “I don’t take our moments of connectiveness for granted anymore. Thank you–each and every one–for one more sacred moment together!”
