On Grief: Losing Lucy

On August 7, I unexpectedly lost my dog Lucy. She was 10 years old and the sweetest golden retriever imaginable.

I got Lucy back in 2015 in Virginia. I had traveled there after leading a workshop at Hampton University and was visiting my friend Jo in Norfolk. Jo had the most beautiful English Cream Golden retriever named Willa, and I was immediately smitten—as I am with most dogs. Jo mentioned that her neighbors down the road had just had another litter. Lesson learned: you never just go to look at puppies. Before I knew it, I was the proud owner of a tiny white ball of fur.

Carson (left) and Lucy (right) became fast friends.

My son Ethan named her Lucy, after the character in the Lego Movie. At the time, we already had Carson, another golden retriever. I had never owned two dogs at the same time, and truthfully, it wasn’t the best timing. I was in the middle of a separation, soon to be divorced. But when life feels unbearably painful, sometimes the irrational, emotional part of us just craves the joy and lightness of a puppy. That’s how Lucy came into our lives.

Lucy surrounded by roses.

Lucy was the sweetest girl. She had big, soulful brown eyes and creamy white, curly fur. If you rubbed the side of her cheek, she would reflexively snarl—it looked fierce, but anyone who knew her knew she didn’t have a mean bone in her body. And while you may not believe this, she would smile when she was happy! Seriously, when I would talk to her or pet her, the corners of her lips would raise in the most adorable, sweet smile. When Carson began suffering seizures, Lucy would somehow sense them before they happened. More than once, she woke me in the night to warn me that he was in trouble. After Carson passed away three years ago, Lucy grew quieter and calmer.

Later, I brought Maya, a rambunctious German shorthair pointer puppy, into the family. At first Lucy wasn’t thrilled, but eventually she and Maya became companions. They didn’t necessarily snuggle or play together, but they followed each other everywhere, alerting one another when the mailman arrived or when neighbor dogs walked by.

Maya (left) and Lucy (right) staring out the window together.

One of my favorite—and sometimes least favorite—things about Lucy was how she would wake me up by sprawling her 80-pound body across me. I couldn’t move, but I secretly loved it. One night earlier this year, I woke up completely squished, with Maya on one side and Lucy on the other. I felt so warm and peaceful, surrounded by these two loving souls.

Grief is hard. It’s been more a week since Lucy died, and the sadness still comes in waves. One minute I’m fine, and the next I see something that reminds me of her, and I’m right back in the ache of missing her. Or I'll accidentally call her name...and then remember she's gone. Grief literally hurts—my body aches with the weight of it, and I’ve been so tired.

I’ve been coping by spending more time with Maya and by painting. Lately I’ve been following tutorials, mostly because it lets me paint without having to think too hard about what to create. At some point, I want to paint Lucy’s portrait, though I’m not ready yet. I’ve painted her before, but none of those attempts really did her justice.

The truth is, our pets are family. They don’t speak our language, but they know us in ways few humans do. They can sense our moods and our pain. We learn their moods, too—we know when they’re sad or unwell, and they trust us with their hearts.

My only wish is that whenever I die, I’m surrounded by all the dogs I’ve ever loved. That they’re running free, with no pain, only joy, only the carefree happiness they gave me every single day of their lives. Love you, Lucy!!! Until we meet again.

Lucy enjoying the sunset while swimming at Harvest Fields.