I Loved Lucy - (Excerpt)

As I write these words, my Lucy has less than 24 hours t live. My wife made an appointment for her with a local vet for tomorrow morning. My brother in law and sister in law are taking her. I could never bring myself to do this awful thing. Granted, I was with my Buddy when she passed away. I had slept with her the previous night, and watched mortality slip from her grasp, and heard her struggling for breath. But to be responsible for the deed, to watch someone inject my little pooch with a toxic mixture of chemicals, well, I simply cannot do this thing.

I picked Lucy up a few minutes ago, and loved on her, and told her how precious she is, (or was as you read these lines. For that matter, as you read these lines, I, too, may have long since gone on to my reward). I told Lucy I’d see her again, and that I am giving her the gift of peace, and joy, and the absence of pain, and that I loved her with an incomparable love. And it is not a stretch to say that tears whelmed in not only my eyes, but those of my dear pooch. (And to be sure, I brushed the lower lid of her right eye, and it was moist.) I’m convinced that animals have some understanding of “what’s going on.” They are not oblivious to life going on around them.

No doubt I will write more about it, but I have a plan. They don’t call me “Dr. Structure” for nothing. We’ll give Lucy a bath later today, and I’ll brush her teeth. I don’t recall if I have previously written about it, but all I have to do is prompt her, and when that tooth brush nears her snout, she will bare her teeth. She seems to know the value of good oral hygiene. (Or not)? But at any rate, she has been very cooperative in this regard. I’ve never seen anything like it.

And I will take my aged old dog for a ride tomorrow morning. Lucy loves to ride. Perhaps her most favorite ride of all time was when I first picked her up at the SPCA, for what would be 7 years of pure bliss and companionship; for both of us. And I plan to patronize a nearby McDonald’s drive through, and order a $1.07 vanilla ice cream cone for the two of us. (No, I could never bring myself to take turns eating it with her, no more than I could bring myself to kiss a dog on the mouth, and I won’t be starting that practice tomorrow. I’ll eat half of it, and I’ll give the bottom of the cone to my Lucy).

I expect my in-laws will be here about 11AM tomorrow.  I will have exited the premises a few minutes prior to that time. Of course, I will have already bid my adieu’s, shed a few tears, and lavished multiplied kisses on Lucy’s forehead, but I simply can’t be here when they take her away.

When I retired for the night, last night, I took Lucy with me. Though I have found myself sleeping in my easy chair the last few months, (a habit that was reinforced during the time I was recuperating from surgery to repair a broken ankle, last night I made an exception.) Since 1996 I have slept with a small dog by my side; first Buddy, and then Lucy. I wanted Lucy to experience her most natural surroundings on this, her last night on earth, (before that dreaded moment when I would place her in the earth).

I have tried to keep busy this morning. Lately I have been involved in some long distance counseling, and a little email correspondence seemed to be the best thing to keep me occupied, as the new day gives way to the stark reality that I am about to allow my precious pooch to go “the way of all flesh.”

Having finished my correspondence, I walked out back with the tool that invokes thoughts of death and mortality. I began my digging next to Buddy’s gravesite, hoping that I could make some inroads into the hard ground that I all too well remember; having also dug my little Buddy’s final resting place.  The roots were ridiculous, but over the course of ten minutes I managed to create a 2x2x2 foot hole. It isn’t going to be sufficient, since Lucy will come home in a cardboard doggie casket that the vet will provide, (at a cost of $20, what a bargain) and I will be forced to enlarge the hole. I will need to call my brother in law later this morning, and ask him to bring an axe so I can complete my Lucy’s mortal resting place.

Two more hours, and my in-laws are due to arrive. Lucy and I have just taken our last ride together. I found myself saying all the things that needed to be said, that couldn’t be left unsaid; how I loved her, and how I’d see her again soon, how she was just the best dog on the face of the planet, how I couldn’t bring myself to take her to the vet, but that loving, caring people would, how that she would see Princess and Buddy in heaven, and Jesus would be there, and how that I’d love to see her again in this life, if she chose to make one of those momentary, and unexplained appearances, like my Buddy did.

I considered feeding her lunch, but thought better of it. I didn’t want her to “up chuck” on the doctor when the medication was administered.

The day before I had suggested my wife make a “going away” cake for Lucy. While there was nothing to celebrate, I wanted to send my little one off with some tribute for all the years she loved and served us so well. And this acknowledgment also seemed good to Jean, and she baked her one, and spread some white, thick vanilla icing across the top. And we celebrated a life well-lived, and of course Lucy was rewarded with the first slice, and Queenie, our newest addition, happily received the second slice. I gave Lucy another slice of cake this morning. (No more worry about her gaining too much weight).

The time was nearing for Clarence and Sue to make their appearance, and I didn’t want to be here when they arrived to escort my Lucy to the “execution chamber.” As I was preparing to leave, Jean suggested that I take Lucy outside. My pooch had just experienced the last bath she would ever take, and I escorted her to the front yard, and allowed her to dry off in the sunlight. As soon as I draped the leash around her neck, and clicked it in place, Lucy ran towards the front door. I made a remark out load, “Lucy, I don’t know why you’d run to your execution.” Of course, she may have simply thought, “I guess it’s time to pee.” (And after a bath she was always in favor of releasing any excess liquid). I walked her out in the sun, and let her sit there, while I stroked her short brown fur. Not unlike that scene in that movie of which I previously allude.

When Lucy was sufficiently dry, I picked her up and Jean and I walked her to the driveway, just behind our old Nissan Sentra, and I offered my little canine friend one last farewell, as I picked her up and loved on her one final time. With this, my wife and I joined hands and prayed, and gave thanks for the time we had enjoyed with Lucy. With one final kiss on her forehead, and a “You were such a good dog,” I got in my car. And backing out of the driveway, I stole one last glance at my overweight pooch, as she stood there seemingly oblivious to the fate which awaited her within the hour.

After I had been at my mother’s house about 45 minutes, my wife rang me up, and reported that the deed was done, and that little Lucy was lying in our front room in her little white pasteboard casket. Jean was crying, and as we conversed, tears also sprang to my own eyes, and my voice trembled.

“When I placed her in the car with Sue I could tell Lucy was thinking, ‘What’s going on here? Where are these people taking me?’ and it seemed she somehow knew she wasn’t coming back; (at least not like she was leaving.”)

I asked about the procedure, and Jean said that Sue told her it was very quick and very painless. Clarence and Sue has walked into the “execution chamber” (sorry, that’s the best term I have for it) and remained with Lucy, while the doctor, well, you know. She injected Lucy with a sedative which escorted her to “never never land” and after my dear pooch drifted a bit, the vet administered a dose of “you ain’t a comin back from this stuff” medication, by way of a similar injection. My in-laws had whispered several “I love you’s” and “It’s going to be okay” phrases to Lucy throughout the procedure, (and for that I’m grateful). There is a slight feeling of betrayal for not having taken Lucy in myself, but it is only slight. I could never have done it.

When I arrived home Jean pointed out the cardboard casket in the living room. I just felt inclined to write something on the lid of it. And I did.

Our dear friend. Lucy Ellen Henrietta Snow Nine McDonald

1-18-2000 – 6-19-2013

We love you

It was time to enlarge the hole I had begun it while Lucy was still living, and moving, and breathing. I picked up my borrowed axe, and walked the fifty paces, or so, out to the new gravesite, (next to the old gravesite). The work was easier now, as I only had to whack away at five or six flimsy roots to prepare the hole for Lucy’s little pasteboard coffin.

The dirt enclosure seemed to be large enough now, though I was unsure whether I had dug it deep enough. My wife and I set the cardboard box down in the hole, and I discovered that there was barely a foot of hole above the top of the box. It would have to do. Obviously, my pooch rested in the bottom of the box, and that provided a bit more depth. My wife and I joined hands, and we each spoke to the precious creature, who no longer has the capacity to hear our inadequate thanks. I then proceeded to cover that obscure little hole in the ground, and having finished, I scattered little river rocks of the “Lowe’s Building Supply” variety across the gravesite.

It’s been two days since our little Lucy left us, and of course I’ve shed some tears, but the pain is much more endurable, than it was with Buddy. And I think the grief is more manageable this time around because of the pain I endured the last time around.

My wife and I drove to MacDill Air Force Base yesterday, and I purchased four flat paving stones, each approximately 1x1 foot in length and width, and pinkish in color. When I arrived home, I Ioaded them up on my neighbor’s handcart, for they were heavy, and I pushed the conveyance out to Lucy’s gravesite, and proceeded to arrange the stones in a rectangular fashion there. All that remains now is to smear a bit of cement between the cracks which separate the tiles, and order a memorial slate, like the one I placed on Buddy’s final resting place. There’s a reproduction of a photograph of Buddy, her name and dates, etc. It’s a wonderful little tribute, and I was glad to discover the advertisement for such a tribute.

I don’t regret having Lucy put to sleep. It was just time. For all I know her recent weight gain was the result of COPD or cancer or diabetes, or something just as dreadful. And her mobility was so challenged that I’m convinced she would have been dragging her back legs behind her, before the year was out. After she looked at the x-rays, the vet at the SPCA informed us, well over a year ago, that the tops of her femurs were no longer rounded, no longer fit properly in the sockets, and had a sheared, flattened effect. I think the only regret that I will entertain for the foreseeable future is not going with my Lucy to her final doctor’s appointment. It was emotionally impossible for me. I’m so grateful that my in-laws volunteered to do the deed.

There’s a video segment on youtube.com which features the famous actor, Jimmy Stewart, (and if it’s still posted by the time you read these lines, I highly recommend you watch it). The famous actor, (and reserve Air Force brigadier general) is seen talking to Johnny Carson on the “Tonight Show.” And he begins to quote his own little poignant poem, “My Dog, Beau.” And near the end of his poem, he implies that after the death of his precious pet, he experienced some unexplainable things. Very much like Mr. Stewart, I experienced nothing less than the supernatural, after my little Buddy died.

As I lay in bed, the sensation of a presence, and respiration against my right arm, and, at times, an invisible weight lying against my ankles; (for Buddy had been my “bed puppy,” and in life, tended to lay on a pillow at my feet). And once as I was finishing my nightly two mile stroll, and I had only just then been thinking about her, a white dog crossed the road, not twenty feet ahead of me, and immediately disappeared, as she stepped into the neighbor’s yard. At this point, Buddy had only been gone a few weeks. I suppose I experienced six or eight similar events, and these were welcome moments, and nothing to be feared.

And I hope my little Lucy will stop by for a visit from time to time.

As I write these words, Lucy has been gone ten days, and if anything, when I pause long enough to think about her, the emptiness is, if anything, greater than it was on the day I last saw her. Intellectually I know there was nothing else to be done, but emotionally, well, she is sorely missed, and how wonderful if I’d had the opportunity to keep her with us another year.

There’s something strange about the whole process of euthanizing one’s precious pooch. I mean, on that last day when I set Lucy in the tub, she might well have thought, “Oh no. I’ve endured this many times before, and as often as he bathes me, well, I’d just rather forego it in favor of ‘dirty.’ I mean ‘clean’ is just very overrated.” And when I brushed her teeth, she would always bare those yellow canines on cue, so I could do the deed. Her untaught tendency to cooperate with me like this always elicited a smile… but not today. Not on that particular day.

I had fed Lucy that morning, but decided not to give her any lunch, lest the food, in conjunction with the sedative, produce an unexpected effect, such as vomiting, at that very crucial moment. And as I gave her breakfast, I thought of those condemned prisoners who order up a last meal. Of course, the major difference is the prisoners are all too aware of their fate. Lucy was marching blindly into a sure, but (to her) unknown future.

I had just rubbed my hand down her back for the final time, and had whispered a few words of parting, and comfort, and of course, the prerequisite “I love you’s,” though it was a privilege, and not an effort to say so.

And then I got in my car, backed out of our driveway, put the car into drive, and drove away. It was only later that my wife shared something that I might just as well have never heard.

“You know when you got in the car, and pulled away, Lucy followed you with her eyes… the whole way, as long as the car was in sight.”

Oh. Wow. That sentence hit me like a ton of bricks. So poignant. My eyes brimmed with tears. Even as I write these words, my eyes once again grow moist, and I can’t help thinking of those last few moments I spent with her. And now, the revelation that my dear little brown pooch never allowed me out of her sight. She gave me the gift of presence, and awareness, and well, as I discovered, she was so much with me as I drove away; her desire to make the moment last just a bit longer, …before the inevitable.

I miss my Lucy. I loved Lucy. And it occurs to me that while I have loved each of my little canines differently, the intensity and depth of my love for them has been very much the same.

And I have often mused what it will be like over there. And I call to remembrance the day I first brought her home. That day on which I looked over at her, and said, “Do ya want to go to heaven?” And oddly enough, her head suddenly swiveled in my direction, and she looked at me with those incredulous, sad, brown eyes, as if to say, “You gotta be kidding. Do you honestly think God is going to let someone like me into His heaven?”

I have asked my heavenly Father to admit all the animals I ever held near and dear. And I have little doubt, they will be waiting for me. And just as surely as my little Lucy watched me go, she will just as eagerly be awaiting my arrival. And as I round the last curve into Home, an angel on each arm, it will be my turn to look for her.

I think that I will see Princess, and Buddy, and Lucy, and my current canine, Queenie; young, and frisky, healthy and happy. And my joy will know no bounds. (“Reunited, and it feels so good.”)

Yes, I Loved Lucy


William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "I Loved Lucy" Copyright 2015

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