Puppies
- Apr 8
- 4 min read
Updated: Apr 9
“We never did find the coffee plantation, but there some cute
puppies just down the street,” my friend visiting us in Costa Rica told me. We jumped back in the car and minutes later were cautiously approaching a makeshift pen on a small front lawn, with six floppy-eared, tawney puppies bumbling around inside. The smiling owners welcomed us in the universal language of dog-lovers. Of course you can play with them!
I rubbed soft fur against my cheek, breathed in the puppy smell, and felt myself choking up. The woman looked at me with concern. “Mi perro muere el mes pasado.” I told her. My dog died last month.
Lo siento mucho, she said, her expression telling me she knew how I felt. Only an animal lover can understand how this loss can sneak up on you, weeks and months after it happens, in spite of your having known you were likely to outlive them, that you were lucky to have had them for so many years, etc. etc. All the usual platitudes others tell you, and you tell yourself.
I’ve had many good dogs in my life, but Lucy was just the best.
It was the saddest Christmas I can remember. Days before, our vet came to give Lucy an injection for what we thought was arthritis. At almost thirteen, we weren’t surprised that she was moving more slowly, had less energy. The vet did a quick exam. Her face said it before she spoke the words: a tumor, I think. Lucy needed an MRI right away. Like, now.
The next few hours played out like a bad dream whose ending you dread, but from which you can’t wake up. The options were all bad. We chose to bring Lucy home, get through Christmas with the family. And then, have a certain kind of vet come to our home, for a procedure that has many clinical and euphemistic names, all of which end with you hugging your girl while she breathes her last breath.
Our youngest had just graduated from college when we brought home our beautiful, stubborn, quirky golden retriever puppy. Lucy hated car rides. If she suspected one was in the offing, (and she had an uncanny ability to know), she’d beeline for the pachysandra bed and lie on her back, all four paws in the air, making it as difficult as possible to tug/cajole/carry her (75 pounds) into the car.
She loved walking into a stream and lying down in it, but never once went for a swim, even that time I acted like I was drowning and needed her help. On our hikes, she pranced as she walked, tail swishing, happily stopping for the inevitable requests from delighted kids and grownups to pet her. She let little ones climb all over her, and when they innocently dangled a tasty morsel close to her mouth, she’d always look at us for permission before taking it ever-so-gently. One day when she opened the French door to our kitchen to let herself in (summoned by the ping of the toaster oven, beep of the microwave, or crackle of a popcorn bag), my husband suggested I teach her to close it again. It took all of two minutes, by simply holding a treat against the open door and letting her jump to push it closed. From then on, everyone who witnessed Lucy opening the door - and closing it behind her - asked if they could take a video.
Lucy never climbed on the furniture, pooped on the lawn (she preferred the woods), and for some reason, never wanted to follow us upstairs…except for when there was thunder at night, when she would quietly climb the stairs and curl up on the floor next to my bed.
In her blue flowered collar, she attended two of our kids’ weddings. During the snowy February when my sister-in-law lay in hospice in our spare bedroom, my walks in the woods with Lucy (God, she loved snow!) kept me grounded, let me breathe. The same with the Covid years, when our adult kids and their spouses moved in with us. She sang arias whenever her favorite people came to visit.
It’s going on four months now since I lost her. I still see her everywhere in my house. I still feel guilty scraping a scrap of chicken skin into the trash.
Maybe one reason I feel good being in Costa Rica is that my Lucy girl isn’t lurking around every corner. But maybe it’s the warmth of this place, the pace of life, the simplicity, the kindness of the people…it seems to conspire to soothe and heal. There is a sense of how the universe can still delight you, in the dance of a butterfly as big as your hand, or spotting a whitefaced monkey and her baby outside the kitchen window. And sometimes, that same universe sends you to a local family who tells you (in response to your casual query) that each of their six sweet puppies is going home to a wonderful family.
I hope they enjoy every moment together.
Your account of life with and after Lucy, calls to mind that bittersweet quote, “Memory is the ability to gather roses in winter.” My heart breaks for your winter, but celebrates all the sweet, beautiful roses.