Togetherness

A Love Letter to Lucy

Lucy Loo the Pittie Boo loved her some eye contact.

Last week, our beloved pit bull Lucy died very suddenly of what seemed like a heart attack in the middle of our afternoon walk. She came into our lives only 6 months ago when she landed on our property underweight and abandoned. Our relationship with her felt fated—she needed us and we needed her.

Grief is the hollow place where all the tenderness of being alive resides—the harsh but sacred gift that loss offers us. It’s where our love for life itself, as expressed and experienced in our love for our particular companions here on earth, lies naked and exposed to the elements.

The house feels empty right now. We are grieving her loss deeply. Anyone who has ever lost someone is familiar with this experience, I know. Grief is as universal as it is deeply personal.

Each week, I write a post about what’s on my mind and in my heart. Right now, both are filled with Lucy. All I can do today is pour my love for her onto this page as our hearts ache at her departure from the physical plane.

A Love Letter to Lucy Loo the Pittie Boo

This photo is a little blurry but it shows her gentleness and those crazy feet of hers.

Dearest Lucy,

Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for being you.

Thank you for wandering onto our property looking for love and acceptance. For having gigantic feelings and unabashedly expressing them. Thank you for the thump thump thump of that tail whenever we walked by—even when you were half asleep. For being a daily example of what pure joy looks like.

Every day, we marveled at your ecstatic dancing in circles when you thought we might get in the car and go on an adventure. Even if this adventure was a trip to the grocery store. Whenever I tried to video this frenzied happiness, you’d stop and look at me. “What are you doing?” You’d ask. “Are we going or what?” I never could capture it.

You wanted the three of us to do everything together. We loved the joy you exuded when we were all in the car—you poking your head in between us from the back seat as we drove along, your gangsta pit bull face in a huge panting smile—feeling fulfilled tooling around town with your posse.

In those moments, I’d laugh and try to sing Chamillionaire’s rap song “Ridin’ Dirty.”

We met you at the end of your life, so what happened before was a mystery to us, but there were plenty of signs of hardship. The bite scars on your neck from being used as a fighting dog. The C section scars, the old teats. Once you stopped being a money maker by producing puppies, were you tossed aside? We’ll never know.

The vet guessed that you had lived outside most of your life by the habitual way you snuffled and scavenged, even in the vet clinic. I felt a poignant heartbreak at your self-sufficiency when we met you, and then was so touched by your willingness to fling that aside and rely on us deeply.

You were so smart and a quick learner. I could see that brain of yours figuring stuff out in real time, always adapting. “Lucy,” I’d say, “You’re college material.”

I had no experience with pit bulls prior to knowing you. I marveled at how brave and strong you were—nothing seemed to scare you. Your pain tolerance was also shockingly high—if I were to accidentally step on your foot—not a peep. If you hit your head on a metal bar of a gate, not a peep. If we fell over you as you ran in circles around us on your leash, not a peep.

You were sixty-five pounds of solid muscle and looked like a badass because a previous owner had clipped your ears for fighting. The vet suggested we get a harness instead of a collar to hold you back if need be. I got a bright orange one and called it your crossing guard outfit. The vet told us it would take about three weeks for you to ‘assert yourself.’

‘Lord,’ I asked, ‘what does that mean?’ The vet shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Lucy in her crossing guard outfit wondering if she’s gonna get her walk. This photo always cracked me up because of the way she sat on her butt and her crazy giant feet.

One thing it meant was that you never wanted to get out of the car when we got home. I’d see that reproachful, hangdog look on your face when I’d open your door to let you out, your head turned downward, you peeping out at me from the corner of your eye, expecting your human to be angry when you’d refuse to move.

You didn’t want your human to get mad, but still, under no circumstances were you getting out just because we were home. I always imagined a previous owner feeling outraged that he wasn’t being obeyed and the resulting power struggle that ensued. But we didn’t care about making you get out. We’d just leave the door open for you and go inside—come out when you’re ready! Because like a human two year old, you had to be the decider.

Over the months, you got out of the car more and more quickly, happy no one was ever angry and also realizing that we’d always let you get back in again. You wanted to go everywhere with us, and we were happy to bring you along. You loved to drive around so much, I thought we should have named you “Rambling Rose.”

You were a pungent thing—a bath lasted about a week—and you were the fartinest girl we ever met—so loud! Most dog farts are silent but deadly, but yours were loud, proud and deadly. You’d let one rip and J. and I would groan, look at each other and say, “Was that you?”

In your perfect world, we’d all just lie down on the bed together and stare into each other’s eyes all day and make out. Life was a love fest waiting to be had. You just wanted to be together. Does anything else matter?

We knew you were older, and your joints were clearly wearing out, but we thought you’d be with us, thump thump thumping your tail for longer than this. It was such a sudden shock when you fell over on our daily walk in the park, and thirty seconds later you were gone. We were stunned. Wait Lucy! Please, not yet! My God, she’s gone. How did this happen?

We are so glad you didn’t suffer as we also feel bereft without you.

Perhaps you were too much for the people who left you out in the world to fend for yourself, but you were just right for us.

Now you are with us from afar. We are so grateful to you Lucy Loo, for being our good good good good girl. We will always love you. Goodbye for now.