Dogs in Backyards

Flip, the husky mix my husband and I had for years, died nearly a year ago this month. Yeah. What a discouraging start, eh? But Flip was a good guy—Senor Guapo was his fancy name, as he often pranced when he walked, high stepping with a rhythm that encouraged the tips of his ears to bounce in unison. He had an imposing fang that escaped his top lip—a little snaggle with his waggle. My husband and I insisted the vet save his tooth when Flip had to have several teeth pulled. And on a cold morning, after several excoriating attempts to actually take our child, put him in our car, and take him to the vet to be put to sleep, we were finally able to let Flip go. As I write this, he hangs out next to me in an engraved cheddar chest. He was, after all, the first pet my husband and I ever lost.

And on an even colder morning, Lucy found us. Before Flip died, I asked him several times to send me another dog just like him. I laughed every time I said it, as I am not one to believe anything transcendent or physical could grant such a request. But I asked anyways. So, about three weeks after Flip passed, Lucy arrives. She first came to my mother-in-law’s house during a particularly cold stretch of winter last January. My sister-in-law, Kay, who is twelve, noticed Lucy shaking outside the gate that leads to the yard and house. Lucy had no collar, and her short Pointer fur gave her little warmth in such weather. In hopes that Lucy would return to her owner, she was ignored at the gate. Two hours later, there Lucy was. She had taken her slender legs and tucked them under her arched body with her nose buried towards her stomach. She shivered and refused to look for a warmer spot. So, we went outside and wrapped Lucy in an old blanket. She shivered even after we brought her inside. She was covered with larger tumors. The nails on her paws had grown to the point where she couldn’t walk with the pads of her feet firmly on the ground. We kept her for two weeks—searching for her owner door-to-door, contemplating whether we could return her to someone who would let her live in such a condition. No “lost dog” flyers. No microchip. No one missed her.

So, Lucy became ours. She was a full grown miniature Pointer mix. Old enough to have benign tumors popping up. Old enough to have progressing cataracts. She was ours. As I half-played-with-half-bathed Lucy in a warm bath, I noticed how similar she was to Flip. They have the same white and brown markings—a brown patch around one eye, most of an ear covered in brown spots. But she was the short-hair Flip. When he was alive, I would shoot curt assassins towards Flip, “Damnit Flip. Why the hell do you shed so much?” every time I swept our hardwood floors and rugs of his incessant hairballs. Lucy was Flip with a little less shedding.

She loved us; although, she also loved running. A lot. She was dart out the door and race three or four blocks over. We could tell which direction she went by the trail of barking dogs in backyards. Man, I could have killed her. So, we’d wrangle her in. And on a nice spring day, Lucy again did her ceremonial dart. I wasn’t going after her this time. I had spent too many hours running around my block, two blocks over, three blocks in my fleece penguin pants. She’d have to decide she wanted to come back. I, of course, did nothing but worry. My stand to do nothing just made me feel guilty. I did some chores: moving furniture outside in preparation for new furniture—Lucy had destroyed the stuffing in all the cushions on our furniture. Yes. That’s right. Maybe another reason why I was unwilling to do laps around the neighborhoods in my penguin pants. I left the furniture outside by the street for a special sanitation pick-up I requested for later that day. As I lugged the pieces outside, I stretched my neck to see if I could see Lucy; I concentrated so I could hear the barks of dogs in backyards. Nothing. One hour. Still nothing. Four hours. Where’s Lucy? Five hours and six car trips around the neighborhoods later, no Lucy. I would never forgive myself for not going after her right away. No wonder she didn’t want to come home. As evening came, I went outside for another inventory of the neighborhood. I walked down my drive way and toward the furniture that was still sitting by the street. Asleep on the cushion-less couch was Lucy. She had found her way home, to her couch, and slept off the exhaustion of her day-long adventure. She didn’t mind when I picked her up, saying “Damn bad dog” and laughing, and took her inside for the night.

So, now we have Lucy. We love her. She is sleeping under the blankets in my bed, next to Flip and me, right now. She’ll have a happy life here.