I still see you out of the corner of my eye.
I wake up and in my still-asleep-stooper, I think you're there.
I wonder if I'll ever stop missing you.
I can never get another dog.
I can't wait for my tattoo appt July 24th.
love.
6.05.2013
4.13.2013
Dear Lucy,
When and how do I write this?
It's been 4 weeks, and it still feels entirely inappropriate to publish.
You deserve for these words to be eloquent, witty, deep, emotional but not over-the-top, meaningful... and most importantly, all ours.
In order to relieve the pressure, I've settled on the conclusion that this doesn't have to be the last. Should the shock ever wear off and I find myself with more to say, I'll come back here. So, here goes...for now.
I've watched close friends say goodbye to their furry best friends, their babies. Some really struggle, I've felt for them. And not in a "oh, man, that must be tough" kinda way, but in a gut-wrenching, heart-aching, pit-of-my-stomach "I don't know what I would do if that happened to Lucy" kinda way. In some cases I've cried, for a while, maybe a little too long...because I always knew that someday, I'd have to say goodbye to you.
I knew it would happen eventually. That's life, right? We get old, death is (unfortunately) a part of life. I always envisioned you being 17 (18 on good days); you'd be blind, deaf, your joints would have given way. I would hang on for far too long, I would carry you to work with me each day, friends would call me crazy and cruel for hanging on. But I wouldn't care because I knew that you'd tell me when the time was right. One day, our time would come. Sawyer would be 12, you would be the only dog he knew and your daily walks to the park would have continued all these years. He (and maybe a brother or sister) would love you to pieces just like his mama did. I would obviously have a hard time with letting you go, but I'd accept it because I would begrudgingly know the time was right.
Never did I anticipate your departure to come so gut-wrenchingly early, and so unceremoniously. I thought I'd get to say goodbye, thought I'd get to make the call, wish you well, kiss you once more and say goodbye. We were unlucky, but I remain thankful for the (almost) 9 years we shared.
You followed me everywhere.
Here's your story /////
I rescued you in 2004 from a man I will forever refer to as Frankenstein - green skin, living in an apt in Gresham. You were too young to leave your mother; I didn't know any better at the time, your mom was nowhere to be found, so who really knows what happened there.
You came into my life just a month after I graduated college. I was looking for direction and an excuse to avoid getting a job. There you were.
I nursed you for 2 months - you were my only job straight out of college. I had won at life.
I potty-trained you by attaching your leash to my belt loop during the day. You followed me everywhere, leash or not. I'll never know if that was because I taught you, or because you wanted to, but truthfully, I don't care. I love that you always followed me.
You followed me to live with my boyfriend in SW Portland after college.
You followed me to the house we rented together as a family in Tigard, hunting the possums living beneath the back deck. They were 5x your size; you didn't care. Good girl, Lu.
You followed me when I decided to pack us up and move to San Francisco, without your daddy and without your best friend, Josephine (heartbreaking).
You followed me to Huntington Park at the top of Nob Hill, you walked with no leash along the cable cars on busy California Street, you snuck onto BART as we cruised to Ocean Beach, you rode to Half Moon Bay, Stinson Beach, Marin Headlands, Mt Tam, and Sausalito, as I sought to find my way in San Francisco, all with you by my side.
You followed me to Arizona, and then back again to San Francisco.
You sat with me - just you and I in the sun at Ocean Beach early February '07, when I made what turned out to be the biggest (and best) decision of my life: to leave San Francisco and come home to make a go of a life with your daddy. I remember asking you that day if you wanted to go home - you said yes. I know you did. You weird-ass English-speaking canine.
You followed me to Portland when I sat in front of him and asked for another chance. The night before, you were reunited with him; we didn't know if you'd remember him after being apart for so long, but sure enough, he said your name and as you heard his voice in the dark, you came running across the floor, tail wagging, up into his arms and straight to his ear...OK, his nose. Funny enough, my reaction to this reunion wasn't too different from yours. He's your daddy - no doubt about it. You love him so, so much...you were home that night, we both were.
So as the story goes, you followed me back to Portland, where we made a life with our family.
You learned not to bark in our tiny apartment in SF, for an entire year.
You learned to bark again within 24 hours of being back home in Portland, and you never stopped.
You knew. You smart, smart girl, you knew.
You celebrated with me as I landed that coveted media gig at W+K.
You posed with me in my W+K wall photo, where your legacy lives on today.
You followed us each year as we hunted down the perfect too-big Christmas tree.
You were with us July '08 as we walked through the park during our final hours with sweet Josephine.
You loved on your daddy as his heart broke when he said goodbye to his very own sweet girl.
You mourned with us for weeks. and then one sunny day, you picked us up and helped us heal.
You excitedly ran to the door when we came home from our Maui vacation in Nov. '08 - my left hand decorated with the most beautiful diamond ring.
You watched as we gleefully opened our gifts upon returning from our honeymoon.
You cuddled on the couch with us that Sunday afternoon in May '10 after that white stick read: "pregnant", and we contemplated how much our lives were about to change. I couldn't imagine loving anything more than you.
You began following me closer than usual; you sat on my stomach; as if to ensure everything was OK as my tummy grew.
On 1/31/11, you didn't sleep. You were uncharacteristically restless. Something was up with you. Or... me, as it turned out.
You followed me from the bed to the living room couch at 2am on 1/31/11, as labor contractions grew stronger.
3 days later, you welcomed our brand new baby boy home.
You followed us around the house at all hours of the night as I rocked and nursed him. You were the best companion ever. Thanks to your shadow, I never, ever felt alone.
You followed me from room to room during maternity leave, keeping watch and cuddling with this tiny warm human I brought home.
You followed me on thousands of camping trips, snuggled in my sleeping bag, walked to the river, on trails, on big dangerous rocks and 1,000 ft-cliffs, all no more than 3 feet behind me.
You followed us to the beach, where you never ceased to jump into the same routine: head low to the ground, ears back, tail tucked, running as fast and hard as you can, with and around us. Your happy place.
You followed us to the park a gazillion times, as Sawyer would walk you on a leash. He pulled you through puddles, up curbs, on the "swide" and around trees. You took it all in stride, you were always right there.
Then, sadly, on 3.14.13, you followed me across the street to the market. Nobody knew you were outside. I didn't think I needed to look behind me. That was the last time you would follow me.
For almost 9 years, you followed me everywhere. You taught me about loyalty. You taught me about unconditional love. You 100% trained me to be an amazing mother (yeah, I said it). You taught me selflessness, humility and courage. You taught me to be brave, and to take the best care of the ones you love the most.
There was no goodbye.
No final moment of peace.
No ceremonious rite of passage.
But you died following me...and though I fear I'll never escape that guilt, I am making every effort to turn it into a positive. So, lessons learned:
Be loyal. Really fucking loyal.
Be there for those you love, and those who love you, especially when it seems like they don't need it.
Follow your people, stick close to them. They'll be with you to the end.
Die protecting them.
Love with your whole soul.
I'll never have another like you, but I am beyond thankful to have had a best friend to walk with me through life, all these years.
I love you, Lucy. Now and always. You're irreplaceable. Thank you for all you've taught me.
It's been 4 weeks, and it still feels entirely inappropriate to publish.
You deserve for these words to be eloquent, witty, deep, emotional but not over-the-top, meaningful... and most importantly, all ours.
In order to relieve the pressure, I've settled on the conclusion that this doesn't have to be the last. Should the shock ever wear off and I find myself with more to say, I'll come back here. So, here goes...for now.
I've watched close friends say goodbye to their furry best friends, their babies. Some really struggle, I've felt for them. And not in a "oh, man, that must be tough" kinda way, but in a gut-wrenching, heart-aching, pit-of-my-stomach "I don't know what I would do if that happened to Lucy" kinda way. In some cases I've cried, for a while, maybe a little too long...because I always knew that someday, I'd have to say goodbye to you.
I knew it would happen eventually. That's life, right? We get old, death is (unfortunately) a part of life. I always envisioned you being 17 (18 on good days); you'd be blind, deaf, your joints would have given way. I would hang on for far too long, I would carry you to work with me each day, friends would call me crazy and cruel for hanging on. But I wouldn't care because I knew that you'd tell me when the time was right. One day, our time would come. Sawyer would be 12, you would be the only dog he knew and your daily walks to the park would have continued all these years. He (and maybe a brother or sister) would love you to pieces just like his mama did. I would obviously have a hard time with letting you go, but I'd accept it because I would begrudgingly know the time was right.
Never did I anticipate your departure to come so gut-wrenchingly early, and so unceremoniously. I thought I'd get to say goodbye, thought I'd get to make the call, wish you well, kiss you once more and say goodbye. We were unlucky, but I remain thankful for the (almost) 9 years we shared.
You followed me everywhere.
Here's your story /////
I rescued you in 2004 from a man I will forever refer to as Frankenstein - green skin, living in an apt in Gresham. You were too young to leave your mother; I didn't know any better at the time, your mom was nowhere to be found, so who really knows what happened there.
You came into my life just a month after I graduated college. I was looking for direction and an excuse to avoid getting a job. There you were.
I nursed you for 2 months - you were my only job straight out of college. I had won at life.
I potty-trained you by attaching your leash to my belt loop during the day. You followed me everywhere, leash or not. I'll never know if that was because I taught you, or because you wanted to, but truthfully, I don't care. I love that you always followed me.
You followed me to live with my boyfriend in SW Portland after college.
You followed me to the house we rented together as a family in Tigard, hunting the possums living beneath the back deck. They were 5x your size; you didn't care. Good girl, Lu.
You followed me when I decided to pack us up and move to San Francisco, without your daddy and without your best friend, Josephine (heartbreaking).
You followed me to Huntington Park at the top of Nob Hill, you walked with no leash along the cable cars on busy California Street, you snuck onto BART as we cruised to Ocean Beach, you rode to Half Moon Bay, Stinson Beach, Marin Headlands, Mt Tam, and Sausalito, as I sought to find my way in San Francisco, all with you by my side.
You followed me to Arizona, and then back again to San Francisco.
You sat with me - just you and I in the sun at Ocean Beach early February '07, when I made what turned out to be the biggest (and best) decision of my life: to leave San Francisco and come home to make a go of a life with your daddy. I remember asking you that day if you wanted to go home - you said yes. I know you did. You weird-ass English-speaking canine.
You followed me to Portland when I sat in front of him and asked for another chance. The night before, you were reunited with him; we didn't know if you'd remember him after being apart for so long, but sure enough, he said your name and as you heard his voice in the dark, you came running across the floor, tail wagging, up into his arms and straight to his ear...OK, his nose. Funny enough, my reaction to this reunion wasn't too different from yours. He's your daddy - no doubt about it. You love him so, so much...you were home that night, we both were.
So as the story goes, you followed me back to Portland, where we made a life with our family.
You learned not to bark in our tiny apartment in SF, for an entire year.
You learned to bark again within 24 hours of being back home in Portland, and you never stopped.
You knew. You smart, smart girl, you knew.
You celebrated with me as I landed that coveted media gig at W+K.
You posed with me in my W+K wall photo, where your legacy lives on today.
You followed us each year as we hunted down the perfect too-big Christmas tree.
You were with us July '08 as we walked through the park during our final hours with sweet Josephine.
You loved on your daddy as his heart broke when he said goodbye to his very own sweet girl.
You mourned with us for weeks. and then one sunny day, you picked us up and helped us heal.
You excitedly ran to the door when we came home from our Maui vacation in Nov. '08 - my left hand decorated with the most beautiful diamond ring.
You watched as we gleefully opened our gifts upon returning from our honeymoon.
You cuddled on the couch with us that Sunday afternoon in May '10 after that white stick read: "pregnant", and we contemplated how much our lives were about to change. I couldn't imagine loving anything more than you.
You began following me closer than usual; you sat on my stomach; as if to ensure everything was OK as my tummy grew.
On 1/31/11, you didn't sleep. You were uncharacteristically restless. Something was up with you. Or... me, as it turned out.
You followed me from the bed to the living room couch at 2am on 1/31/11, as labor contractions grew stronger.
3 days later, you welcomed our brand new baby boy home.
You followed us around the house at all hours of the night as I rocked and nursed him. You were the best companion ever. Thanks to your shadow, I never, ever felt alone.
You followed me from room to room during maternity leave, keeping watch and cuddling with this tiny warm human I brought home.
You followed me on thousands of camping trips, snuggled in my sleeping bag, walked to the river, on trails, on big dangerous rocks and 1,000 ft-cliffs, all no more than 3 feet behind me.
You followed us to the beach, where you never ceased to jump into the same routine: head low to the ground, ears back, tail tucked, running as fast and hard as you can, with and around us. Your happy place.
You followed us to the park a gazillion times, as Sawyer would walk you on a leash. He pulled you through puddles, up curbs, on the "swide" and around trees. You took it all in stride, you were always right there.
Then, sadly, on 3.14.13, you followed me across the street to the market. Nobody knew you were outside. I didn't think I needed to look behind me. That was the last time you would follow me.
For almost 9 years, you followed me everywhere. You taught me about loyalty. You taught me about unconditional love. You 100% trained me to be an amazing mother (yeah, I said it). You taught me selflessness, humility and courage. You taught me to be brave, and to take the best care of the ones you love the most.
There was no goodbye.
No final moment of peace.
No ceremonious rite of passage.
But you died following me...and though I fear I'll never escape that guilt, I am making every effort to turn it into a positive. So, lessons learned:
Be loyal. Really fucking loyal.
Be there for those you love, and those who love you, especially when it seems like they don't need it.
Follow your people, stick close to them. They'll be with you to the end.
Die protecting them.
Love with your whole soul.
I'll never have another like you, but I am beyond thankful to have had a best friend to walk with me through life, all these years.
I love you, Lucy. Now and always. You're irreplaceable. Thank you for all you've taught me.
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