My Beloved Lucy

Trigger Warning: Death of pet

I lost my sweet girl, my little soulmate, my gardening companion, and my best friend. It’s already been a little over a month and yet, I still voice out loud, “I can’t believe you’re not here. I just can’t.” I touch her clay paw print whenever I pass it on the fireplace, I talk to the pink urn that holds her ashes; anything to make it feel like she’s here with me.

In mid-July, Lucy randomly woke up with a large bloated belly. After many vet and hospital visits, it had finally been diagnosed as gastric cancer. The day after we found out that the constant shaking, the lack of appetite, the large belly, and every other thing that seemed to rob Lucy of herself was cancer, we let her go. Exactly six weeks from the date of her first belly episode, my sweet girl was gone. Within the last week of her life, she went from 3.4lbs (usually she was about 4lbs) down to 2.1lbs. She was deteriorating quickly even though she fought so hard to stay.

We chose to have her go while at our home. The morning of that day, she had a surprising little pep in her step while trying to wake us up. We spent as much time in the garden. However, the pain she was enduring didn’t let her do much of anything except lay in my arms. And even that was sometimes too painful for her. By the time the doctor arrived, Lucy was tired and curled up in front of the fireplace/heater. She was ready.

(Perhaps this all seems over dramatic to some, but that is their opinion.)

I wanted to make the passing as beautiful as I could. I lit candles, placed our favorite photos of her on the fireplace mantle, cut a bouquet from my garden (really, it was hers) and placed it next to photos. I had a playlist of a few versions of my favorite instrumental songs that remind me of Lucy playing from the kitchen…dogs don’t get real funerals. We don’t get that final closure with them while surrounded by friends. So, I made one as best as I could for us.

The doctor (from BluePearl Hospice) was everything we needed in a doctor: compassionate, gentle, understanding, peaceful, empathetic, and loving. (Thank you, Dr. Elizabeth.) She adored all three of our pups, was gentle with them all as they hovered around Lucy. She explained every step of the process and let us lead the way. We each held her, trying to be as careful as possible as she was still in pain. Dr. Elizabeth gave Lucy some sleepy medicine when we were ready. My sweet girl snored for the first time in so long! She had been having such terrible sleepless nights for weeks, we didn’t realize how long it had been since she snored and was truly relaxed. That alone confirmed we were doing the right thing. She needed to rest. Paul and I each took turns holding her. Rusty came up to lick her entire face (he never has done that, not at least since the early days when we got Lucy and Ethel). Ethel sniffed around, but mostly was wanting to be pet by any of us. 🙂 (We’re not sure if she realized what was happening. It was only a week or so ago, we noticed her not wanting to go to bed, not wanting to leave the couch, moving slower than usual, and sniffing the kennel; we think that might have been the moment she realized her sister wasn’t coming home.)

When we said all that we could to Lucy, pet her, rubbed her toes, and kissed her face countless times, we told Dr. Elizabeth we were ready. Within two seconds of receiving the final dose, Lucy was gone. She went so quick; she was ready. I didn’t know what to expect as her body became still. I’ve never held a deceased animal before. Friends, it was awful. I’ll never forget the moment I watched her officially leave.

The doctor gave Paul and I each time to hold her and be alone as a family. We then put her in a beautiful basket the doctor provided, and wrapped her in a pink blanket. We continued to say our goodbyes, let Rusty and Ethel sniff her and figure out what was going on; the entire time I kept saying, “This is bizarre. I can’t believe she’s gone.” Dr. Elizabeth asked if we wanted to walk her out to the car with her, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t watch Lucy leave her home for good. As she left, I broke down into Paul’s arms. I had never felt this type of pain before. We continued to console each other, give love to Rusty and Ethel, and when we felt sturdy on our legs, we took our usual walk.

She died September 3rd. It’s been just over a month, and I don’t see the grieving process ending anytime in the near future. We don’t have children. Rusty, Lucy, and Ethel are as close as it gets for us. (Some people don’t understand that, but the ones that have, you are appreciated more than you could possibly know.) We lost a member of our family and the hole she left is immeasurable. I feel as if an extension of myself has been removed. I told Paul it’s like I lost 4lbs of him; she meant the world to me (and continues to).

It took a couple of weeks before I was able to mildly enjoy the garden again. I still call out, “Lucy Goose, where ya at?” She was so tiny that she’d be hidden by a single flower. So, whenever I yelled that out, she knew to show her face for me, letting me know she was alive and safe in the yard. 🙂 And then she’d go back to exploring. I miss my girl terribly. I still can’t believe how alone I feel. She was my girl.

Ethel and Rusty have been taking care of us, of course. Ethel has even taken over Lucy’s spot in bed, on a blanket right between Paul’s and my head. Rusty continues to snuggle as close as he can whenever we’re near him (he has been showing signs of dementia for months; dear friend, I hope I don’t write another post like this for awhile). We are continuing to get through each day, but there’s barely 10 minutes that can go by where I don’t think about my sweet Goose.

We’ve been spotting cardinals like crazy ever since she left (cardinals are a sign that a departed loved one is reaching out to offer comfort). Each time we see one, we’ll point it out and say, “Hi Goose!” I swear to you I’ve heard her bark twice at night, when I’m still awake reading. I’ll think it’s Ethel downstairs but she is always right next to us sleeping. Lucy has been visiting and I’m so grateful for it.

I’m lonely, dear friend. Very much. She truly was my little soulmate. She was 90% human, 10% dog. I began filling out adoption papers for rescue dogs that reminded me of Lucy, but halfway through I broke down crying and exited the tab. When I’m ready, I’ll know.

We received so many tokens of sympathy and friendship from people. Bouquets of flowers delivered throughout the week of her passing, cards from loved ones near and far, chocolates, cozy blankets to give comfort, plants to remind us of her, custom art designed of her, countless text messages checking in on us and offering support and love, Instagram messages offering condolences and love…we have surrounded ourselves with truly wonderful people. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts. It makes her death not seem so frivolous and unimportant; you knew how much she meant to us, how she was a true member of our family, and you showed that in so many ways. My girlfriend introduced me to someone the other day and the topic of dogs was brought up, and my friend said, “Oh, Nikki has three little yorkies!” Even something so simple like that, acknowledging she’s still our girl even though she’s not physically here…

If you’ve reached the end of this post, thank you for allowing me to tell the story of Lucy. I didn’t realize sharing all of this would feel like a tiny weight is lifted.

If you are someone who has lost a beloved animal, and feel comfortable doing so, I would love if you shared in the comments, introducing me (and others) to your sweet pet. During grief, solidarity can be such a comfort. We’re all in it together.

Big hugs and love to you all,

Ethel is on top of the couch, Lucy is the loud looking one. 🙂