Little Lucy

Lucy spun in circles when she saw me. Every time. It didn’t matter if I’d been gone five minutes or five hours, she’d lose it the second I walked through the door. That was our thing.

We were attached from the day she was born. I tried to take her on long walks every day, but the weekends were ours. I’d show up, open the door to my truck, and she was already jumping in before I could set my bag down. We were going hiking.

Mt. Rubidoux was the spot. Best hike around town. We’d go up the side of the mountain, only sometimes taking the paved path. She stayed right by my side. I kept treats in my pocket and she knew it. She’d scramble up rocks just to show off, then look back at me like she’d earned one. She had.

One weekend we got back to the bottom of the hill and she had a limp. I watched it get worse on the walk to the truck. By the time we got home I knew something was wrong.

The vet told me she had the little knees of her mother. She should probably just stick to walks from now on.

The car ride home was hard. Getting home was harder. I broke down thinking about how I had pushed her, how many times we went up that mountain, how I didn’t notice sooner. Our hiking days were over.

Lucy taught me something about the bond between a dog and a human. She taught me to be more observant of the ones I love. To not take it for granted. To pay attention, not just to the good days on the mountain but to the small things — the limp you almost miss, the way someone slows down and doesn’t say anything about it.

Little Lucy lived a long and loved life. Sixteen years. Love you, Lucy.