Lucy the Bloodhound

We've often included photos of our bloodhound Lucy in posts. Yesterday was Lucy's last day. She has been a faithful, funny, furry companion to me for the past six years, and to Nate for four years before that. He rescued her from a series of not-quite-right homes when she was almost two years old. She joined Ellie, a Plott Hound who was Lucy's companion until she succumbed to a tumor in 2013. 

Lucy and I didn't automatically hit it off when we first met. Nate called her BSL (big, stinky Lu) and I rapidly understood why. In her eyes, I was the interloper moving in on her territory. One of my many shortcomings was my lack of understanding about her favorite nap spot: draped along the back of the couch like a blanket. After some staring contests (true!), treats (for her), and a certain amount of training (for both of us), we became steadfast and devoted friends. She has only reluctantly left my side since then, traipsing upstairs, downstairs, outside, upstairs, and down again in the course of an afternoon just to keep me in sight. She positions herself so we can't possibly ignore her, laying on the floor by my side of the bed or in the middle of the kitchen when we're cooking. We step over her to get from the sink to the stove. She loves bell pepper strips and the crunchy part of lettuce leaves. 

My days begin and end with Lucy: the jangle of her tags during her full-body wake-up shake every morning (somehow timed to occur just before my alarm), some loving snout rubs right before I climb into bed at night. I talk to her throughout the day and am convinced that she understands me better than some people do. Her greetings when we come home after an absence of even just an hour make me feel like a returning champion in a hometown parade. My car has become the dog car, with prints from her wet nose on the back windows and fur flying everywhere when the windows are open. I've carted her with me on errands (the tellers send a treat along when we use the drive-through lanes at the bank and the pharmacy, the latter to pick up her pills), to doggie daycare, to the dog park, to pick up Nate at the airport, and for jaunts to new places with lots of new smells for her to explore. I have told her thousands of stories and secrets. She always listened, chiming in with her own thoughts, nudging my hand with her snout and putting a paw on my knee to help me remember what is really important. (Walks, head scratches, and ear massages, obviously.) 

We have done what we could to keep her healthy and happy, but when your very best girl has more bad days than good and no longer takes pleasure in the things that used to make her leap with joy, when she quivers with discomfort rather than delight, it's time to think about when to say goodbye. Though we both have known for a while that this was facing us, Nate and I feel utterly destroyed. No matter what you tell yourself, you can't prepare for the lack of a presence that you hold so dear. I will miss her howls, her velvet ears, her unfailing nose, her looks of devotion, her clumsily executed tricks, her active and vocal dreams, her very real distress when I curse in frustration, the way she stretches herself out to feel the full effect of her oscillating BFF (best fan forever), and even her lumberjack snores and tumbleweeds of hair on the floor and drool on the walls.

Goodbye, sweet puppy, my good and favorite girl. You loved us so incredibly well. We can hardly begin to say how very much we loved you. You are no longer by my side, but are forever in my heart.