THE ADOPTION OF LUCY ELLEN HENRIETTA SNOW NINE MCDONALD

*Note: I will save the strategy behind Lucy's long list of names for another day.

As I write the three word title for my new volume, the words almost jump off the page in terms of their almost surprising impact on me. For though I have written, “I Loved Lucy,” (past tense) as I now sit in my living room recliner, she lies three feet to my left on her doggie bed, very much alive; though very much diminished.

And though she still lives, and moves, and breathes, I recognize the waning stages of her life, and it is apparent she will not be long with us; certainly not nearly as long as she has already been with us. And I have already made verbal inferences to the time that something will have to be done, and the final pages of this volume written.

Lucy is much closer to “there” than she is “here,” and I dread the day when nature, wisdom and decency, itself, will dictate that stark realization that wraps itself around two words,… “It’s time.”

And it occurs to me that I may be deluding myself, and whether Old Man Time is already lightly tapping at her door. And whether I choose not to hear him, and whether indeed, I have drawn the proverbial curtains, and added a figurative deadbolt to a door that is so weak, and dilapidated and that it is ready to fall down of its own accord.

Time has not been kind to Lucy, though she had borne up well considering. And for the obvious physical toll Time has imposed on her, I have never heard her complain. Not one time. But we will return to that consideration.

Though she lingers, (and the title of my little volume may seem contradictory) I remember the times and seasons I have been privileged to know her, and feel most privileged that she has lent herself to my care.

Recently, I read something a six year old girl had to say on the subject. Like a sage she reflected that “Dogs don’t live so long, ‘cause dogs don’t need time to practice. They already know how to love.” And Lucy has cloaked this theory with substance.

My father, who preferred his first name, Henry, “took his leave” last month. As we discovered only recently, he had experienced several mini-strokes (TIA’s,) and over the course of several years, he’d been content to sit for most of his waking hours.

As a result of Lucy’s similar behavior, I have taken up calling my pooch, “Henrietta” since most of her so-called “waking hours” have been anything… but. Immobile, sedate, unyielding, unmoving, eyes open and set, but breathing, nonetheless.

Granted, as the song goes, “The Old Gray (Pooch) Ain’t What She Used To Be” but who among us are? “When you consider the alternative…” And increasingly,… I have begun to.

Only a few minutes ago, I lifted Lucy into my arms and carried her down the hallway towards my bedroom. Placing two pillows in what amounts to an arrowhead formation, I laid her down between them; her head against one, and her paws resting on the other. Lifting the cover, I pulled it halfway up her paunchy little frame, and spent a few moments massaging her arthritic limbs, before rejoining my wife in the living room.

As Jean and I approach the eve of Lucy’s home-going, I reflect on the joy she has brought into our lives, I affirm the virtual commitment that she will not only be my third, but last, and I remember the previous two canine guests who graced my life. Buddy and Princess.

After My Little Buddy stepped away from us, having stayed as long as she was allowed to stay, I realized such significant grief that it was impossible to contemplate replacing her in anything like short order. Ten months came, and went before I experienced any desire for canine companionship. ‘Til then, I either grieved Buddy’s absence or falsely believed adopting another dog would have amounted to abject betrayal of my relationship with her.

It is amazing how time brings a sense of (at least partial) closure, and offers a great deal of clarity.

But to begin at the beginning.

I woke up one day and I was simply ready to adopt another dog. I wasn’t … and then I was. I marched myself over to the SPCA in a nearby town, (well, actually I drove) and asked if I could tour their facility. Of course, they were more than gracious, and invited me to view their pet population. And as the fictional Forrest Gump might have said,… “And so, I did!”

I walked through one room and then another, and all I saw were large and unwieldy animals. I wasn’t interested in a St. Bernard or Pit Bull. My first dog had been the largest of my personal pets. As a Cocker Spaniel

Princess had weighed all of 30 pounds, and might have been 18 inches at the shoulder. (Can it be over half a century since she pitter pattered across the rainbow bridge)?

I found myself a bit, (well, more than a bit) frustrated as the closest semblance to a small dog I saw was a sickly looking puppy, scared and shivering, and peering out through the aluminum bars which surrounded him. While I felt sorry for the little tyke, I wasn’t in the market for a sick dog; however small he was.

Fifteen minutes had come and gone, and as I was about to walk out of the facility, I saw her. When I was about to surrender all hope… I saw her. The last, but certainly not the least of the bunch. Across the top of her cage, a dirty, faded label… “Prudence.”

As I reflected on it later, much later, Prudence was definitely a likely name, since Lucy has displayed a rather stuck up attitude through the years, and she has always wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. But as soon as I first laid eyes on her, I sensed that it was the wrong name. Close but no lollipop.

I found myself peering inside the small cage, and I could only wonder what sort of combination of indistinct canine flesh I found myself analyzing. As I stood there musing, the assistant director of the shelter appeared beside me, and as if reading my mind said, “Sir, we think Prudence is part Pug and part Corgi. No guarantees, but look at the shape of her body. Reminds you of one of the Queen’s pooches. And notice those eyes. Pure Pug. Would you like to take Prudence out into the yard?”

Odd, an expectant warmth flooded through my entire body. Why, yes, I did want to take this so-called Prudence into the yard. And so… I did. (But then I have already used that line in the confines of this first chapter).

As “Miss Jones” lifted the mournful eyed pooch out of her cage, and snapped a leash around her neck, I knew, I just knew that my life was about to change, and that it had everything to do with this non-descript little, brown pooch.

I can tell you that my yet to be named “Lucy” took to me like corned beef on cabbage, and it was obvious how glad she was to get out of that cage. She began to wag her almost non-existent tail at “78 RPM.” As the shelter worker resumed her duties, I walked Prudence around in circles in the confines of a grassy area surrounded by a white picket fence. As I reflect now, the white picket fence was a portent for good.

After a few minutes I walked the little cross-breed pooch back into the shelter. The sun seemed to shimmer off her naturally groomed fur. The assistant director had previously made me aware that this little dog was about seven years of age. I was both reticent and eager to adopt her, if both emotions are possible at the same time. I knew that little Prudence wouldn’t stand a chance, if too many people like me passed her by, and I felt sorry for her. At the same time by canine standards she was already a middle-aged dog, and certainly couldn’t be considered “the pick of the litter.”

The Dr. Jenkyl (rather than the Mr. Hyde) in me won out. I just couldn’t resist, and it pained me to visualize this desolate little pooch being led down her own Green Mile. “And so my dear readers, I (adopted) her,” to borrow a line from Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre.”

I paid the required $70, and was informed I’d have to pick her up later in the week, since she would have to be sterilized before being released to me. (And of course, I was immediately reminded of the famous Bob Barker quotation with which he always signed off the air).

Well, I showed up at the pet shelter, (funny, they call it a “shelter,” but put so many hapless and helpless unwanted pets down on a daily basis) a couple days later, and retrieved little Prudence. As I signed the required paperwork, and walked my already old pooch out the door, I could tell she felt, at the same time, both confused, and liberated.

But she was no pushover, and I was aware it might take time for her to bond with me. But there would be no more cages, and no more constraints. I opened the passenger door and sat her down on the seat. And it was like, “Hmmm, this is new and different” and I kid you not, it was like a crooked, little smile appeared on her face. At least, she suddenly seemed rather content, thank you.

The date was January 18, 2007.

As my newfound friend and I headed home, and my trusty 2006 Altima cruised down the parkway, I looked over at the seemingly hopeful little tyke, and said something like,

“Well now, welcome to my world, Prudence. And by the way, your name is no longer Prudence. Let’s see, what shall I call you?”

I had already been mulling over names, and with my wife’s assistance, we had come up with “Lucy,” since we both had grown up watching that comedic heroine.”

“From now on, you’re Lucy. None of that Prudence stuff.”

And as I spoke the words, I was immediately reminded of that scripture which speaks of God giving us a new name. I wonder what my heavenly name will be? By this time, the newly christened Lucy seemed mildly curious. What else would this strange old guy come up with?

“And you wanna go to heaven? I’m claiming you for heaven right now. We’re gonna have lots of fun here, and even more on the other side.”

I really had her attention now. She seemed extraordinarily attentive.

Jean was waiting at the front door when we got home. As I lifted Lucy from the passenger side of the car, placed her on the ground, walked her through the door, and glanced up at my wife, she wore a dubious expression. I had previously warned her that Lucy was no Buddy, but all my preparation was apparently for naught.

And right there in front of God and everybody, Jean said,

“Uh, tell me that’s not the dog you chose. Please tell me.”

Excerpt from "I Loved Lucy." Copyright 2017. 

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