Since the shelter had accepted the pup as their charge, the obligation for all of her initial vaccines and spaying was part of the contract with the agency. The pup had only her first round of shots, and until she had had them all, she was not to leave the vicinity. Because of my daughter’s connection and support, the shelter director would allow me to leave town with the dog in tow. However, I had to promise to return her to them routinely when shots and spaying were due. I gave my word and purchased a small crate, and we headed for home. She was a calm and happy traveler from the start, although these recurring trips were suddenly longer in duration as frequent “potty” stops were required.
Though the puppy was a mere ball of creamy butterscotch–colored fluff, I marveled at her curiosity, determination, and zest for life. Because of the tenacity (and perhaps a mean streak) she seemed to possess, I named her Lucifer. She quickly began responding to the shortened and more loving version of her name: Lucy.
In the early days Lucy and I spent together, her crate stayed by the front door, as we traveled back and forth so often. She slept through the night easily and instantly. Accidents were rare. On one of our early and frequent potty trips to the backyard, it began to rain, and Lucy immediately headed to the door. I knew an accident would result if we went inside without her first doing her “business,” so I placed her back in the yard to accomplish our goal. I stayed with her and insisted, “You have to go potty, and I am going to win.” Lucy looked at me with a seemingly knowing grin and raced around the yard in circles until a torrential rain forced me to pick her up and take her inside—still without success. The quiet life was over; she was no longer concerned about storms or getting wet. It was readily evident that Lucy was in charge.
My leisurely retirement mornings of sleeping in were gone. While Lucy would quiet temporarily if I reminded her, “It’s still dark,” and waited patiently as I brushed my teeth and pulled on my clothes, she stirred with the first slivers of light passing through the shutters and eagerly anticipated the start of her day. As I unlatched her crate, my happy little charge seemed to dance across the floor in excitement as she headed for the door and the breakfast that would follow. Her enthusiasm for life and all that it might hold made me aware there were still many simple pleasures to enjoy, despite the pain I continued to feel.
When Lucy came in, the indoor plants went out. Intrigued by the smell, texture and availability of all plants, she happily set about gnawing and digging at every available species. My backyard, which had been lush and magazine-perfect before her arrival, was immediately altered and under constant attack as a result of her inquisitive nature. My efforts to deter her interest by spraying the plants with the hot sauce a friend suggested did not stop Lucy. It did affect the plants, however, as they burned and wilted. Fortunately, indoor plants could be removed, providing a safer and less stressful environment for dog and owner. I gave those plants away, and somehow, following their departure, I experienced another sense of discarding what had once seemed so important, and yet another restructuring of priorities.
Still, Lucy found she could chew inconspicuously by crawling under beds and furniture and tearing at hidden mesh. Once I discovered her secret and removed the fiber, she turned to the rug under the kitchen table and socks left momentarily unattended. When I provided a variety of chew toys, she happily redirected her attention. Lucy soon grew to be intrigued by her reflection in the refrigerator or full-length mirror and running circles around the open downstairs living space, where she was allowed free (but supervised) rein. Just keeping her safe and occupied seemed to fill up every minute.
Lucy quickly learned to identify and respond to the sound of the peanut butter jar and the yogurt container opening—two of her favorite treats. She waited patiently by the freezer door to stealthily remove an errant ice cube dropped from the ice maker. She would immediately take it to the rug to happily chew, before she returned, in hopes of finding more. She understood the words “power nap” and readily curled up on her bed so dog and owner could reenergize. Refreshed and stretching afterward, Lucy would happily return to her outside world to chase whatever she might find.
I was still avoiding contact with people in the neighborhood as much as possible, so at first we neglected walks. However, my neighbor, who owned two dogs of his own, repeatedly reminded me that Lucy needed to be on a leash and learn to walk. With his continued reassurance, we took on a new adventure. Having witnessed so many neighbors with their bags to clean up after their pets, I thought I could likely handle this type of outing. After all, I held an advanced degree and had thirty years of teaching and parenting experience. It wasn’t as easy as it looked, and my ineptitude quickly surfaced. I somehow got the bag tangled, and the waste fell from the bag to the sidewalk with a distinctive plop. I took Lucy home and returned with another bag, paper towels, and a large bucket of water to clean up the mess. Again, I wondered, What was I thinking? But at least my humility remained intact.
When I noticed spaghetti-length worms in her stool, I located a vet close by and treatment began. It seems we had found our vet just in time. At the recheck for worms, Lucy was found to have ear mites as well, and more medication was required. This time, it was ear drops, and she didn’t seem to think they were at all acceptable. At a time when I was trying to bond with my new puppy, she would avoid me at any cost, rather than have drops repeatedly applied to her ears. Setbacks aside, I was expanding my network.
I had not expected to adopt a puppy and had given little thought to the breed or the characteristics of the breed. Terms like “high energy,” “intelligent,” “loving,” and “playful” seemed to apply to all young pups eager to explore their world. As a beagle-Lab mix, not only did Lucy possess boundless energy, but she also picked up on high-energy signals from her emotionally unsettled and frustrated owner. The combination of the two often made our coexistence a visible struggle. She was a hunter, digger, and retriever. She was proud to present each new treasure she discovered and captured, from lizards and entire plants with roots intact to rats and snakes. Most times, my enthusiasm did not come close to matching her excitement, and I often questioned my ability to maintain this pace.
Lucy provided, and perhaps expected in return, unconditional and selfless love. She opened my heart. She offered support in my fledgling efforts to move beyond heartache, and, as her owner, I was required to step outside my comfort zone and consider more than my own needs. Lucy needed playtime, sunshine, and lots of opportunities to go outdoors. She demanded training and attention, consistency and patience, and a great deal of time. Food and supplies required trips to the pet store, where I soon realized just how overwhelmed I was with a dog. Workers there consistently and hurriedly approached us upon our arrival. They wore worried looks on their faces and would ask how they might assist us (meaning me). Lucy happily accepted and came to expect the attention bestowed upon her at each visit. I just wanted to go home.
But gradually I began to put Lucy’s needs first. I mastered scooping poop into little plastic bags. I sat on the floor with her, rather than on the furniture, and I placed cozy dog beds on the floor of every room where we spent time together. I felt my heart expanding and joy beginning to sneak in. I learned about appropriate chew toys and healthy food and snacks. I dedicated my Saturdays to her. Between long weekends of travel for her puppy round of shots, we were at puppy play programs at the Humane Society. I enrolled her in puppy training, where I was the least competent of any of the other dog owners. I took her for socializing at Lowes and Target, where her little feet fell through the openings of the shopping baskets as we attempted to acquire confidence while she encountered loud noises, strangers, and crowds. Of course, if I were going to teach Lucy to be fearless, I knew I must once again endeavor to be fearless myself. We learned to navigate the rules of local dog parks, and encounters with other dog owners in those settings. I purchased what I was told were the appropriate and approved collars, harnesses, and car restraints available in today’s pet-frie
ndly market.
I soon discovered that having a dog was as complicated as having a baby. I learned that, like babies, people respond to puppies, and “parents” want to do right by them. Because I was retired, I had made a full commitment of time and energy to my new charge. Each time I learned of a recommended training program or puppy socializing class, I registered Lucy and dedicated my time to it. The entire puppy adventure overwhelmed me, but I was assured that I would soon find and assimilate into groups of friends with dogs. I was doubtful that there would ever be light at the end of this tunnel, but I was unable to do anything less than forge ahead. I had survived the unexpected end of my marriage; surely I could manage Lucy.
I caught myself talking to her as I had talked to my daughters and students and marveled at how quickly her vocabulary grew. As in human relationships, I sometimes missed the mark for how best to handle her current needs and situation. We made modifications along the way and acquired extra support or alternate training whenever necessary. Trial and error raised my awareness of what Lucy required at any given moment to benefit each of us and to ensure that I could live up to the commitment of dog ownership. Each time I failed and required outside help, my world expanded and I developed new connections and friendships. With hard work and great determination, I was finally rewarded for my efforts with a reasonably well-behaved and companionable young dog.
Lucy’s love of the outdoors and the sunshine on her face paralleled my own. When unable to be outside in direct sunlight, she would lie on the stairs, where the sun streaming through the windows would fall directly upon her. However, as I grew more willing to venture out, we spent much time outdoors, exploring the neighborhood, to the benefit of both of us. She forced me to move beyond my grief and solitude, and I soon knew the names of all the dogs and their owners we encountered on our frequent and lengthy walks. Long walks also provided me with time to reflect and think things through in an effort to formulate plans for moving ahead in my life. My world was indeed growing.
As Lucy and I continued meeting and interacting with people from all over the neighborhood, I expanded beyond the drinking buddies I had shared with my spouse and began enjoying a comfortable sense of belonging and ownership I had not experienced before. I met an inspiring elderly neighbor who still lived independently, engaged in meaningful conversation, delighted in making and sharing her traditional pierogi, and still worked outside in her yard on a daily basis. At the age of ninety-three, Mary became a role model for how I wanted to live when I reached her age. Lucy and I walked by her house several times each day, and I found myself looking forward to seeing her each time we passed.
None of these new friends seemed to care or to ask about my relationship with anyone apart from my dog. Before long, I found myself looking forward to these interactions with others and the tips and guidance they provided. Amazingly, Lucy was responsible for the development of one of my most treasured new friendships. A happy, chance meeting occurred on one of our walks, as we spied an unknown neighbor with a stunningly beautiful young pup tangled at the end of a long leash. As I stopped to offer help, we introduced ourselves and our pets. While Lucy sniffed and made Stella’s acquaintance, Monika and I chatted briefly. As Stella and Lucy grew into the best of puppy friends, Monika and I developed a deepening friendship, trust, and respect for each other. Now, playdates between Lucy and Stella have become as eagerly anticipated by the owners as by the dogs themselves as we share conversation and camaraderie while the animals frolic happily in the backyard.
More than three years have passed since Lucy entered my life. We have both grown calmer and accustomed to each other, despite setbacks and frustrations. Retraining was sometimes necessary. Boarding arrangements were adjusted and playgroups rethought. I remain concerned that I will not have the energy Lucy will continue to require. Yet I have discovered there are many unexpected ways in which we can empower ourselves, and that raising a puppy is one of them. I found that by rising to my best, I allowed Lucy to be her best. I discovered that time spent training Lucy afforded me time for retraining myself to enjoy all that life offers. I marveled at the fact that watching her sleeping peacefully on her bed in front of the fire provided me with as much peace and tranquility as a day spent on the beach. I began to listen for the tiny yelps she would emit as she slept, and wondered what part of our day she was remembering in her dreams. I came to realize that Lucy was my very own service dog, who could calm me merely with her quiet breathing. And each time I encountered the catchy phrase “Who rescued who?” I smiled and offered a quiet prayer of thanks, because I know: Lucy rescued me.
At a time when it seemed like my life was over, Lucy gently led me to discover that it had in fact just begun. She selflessly and unknowingly afforded me the strength and healing that I so desperately required. I have no doubt that while I might have eventually made it to the place where I was meant to be, I would not have made it as quickly or as well without Lucy by my side. She provided a sense of peace and joy in my life that had been lost. As we share quiet moments of contentment over coffee and a bone on the porch, watching birds and lizards, or with wine and a bone in front of the fire, my heart never fails to explode with gratitude and love.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Hits Just Keep On Coming
“Sometimes you have to get knocked down lower than you’ve ever been to stand up taller than you ever were.”
—UNKNOWN
PEOPLE WILL TELL YOU THAT TIME HEALS. I quickly discovered that time does not heal—it merely passes. Healing does need time, but it also requires hard work, probing questions, grieving, support, and determination. The grieving process also demands more effort and includes more setbacks than I had ever imagined. Even with therapy and an improved sense of strength, I often felt as if I was losing my sanity. I found myself crying over the gentle kindnesses others showed me. The moment my friend who lived next door walked over to ask, “How are you doing?” The time the handyman preferred by all in the neighborhood approached me one day when I was walking Lucy and said, “I heard about what happened. Anything you need, just give me a call.” I believed that what we put out to the world comes back to us.
Each day I was filled with gratitude for having inherited my father’s optimism and resiliency. I had been trying to maintain the positive, and much was returned to me. Still, I was also unable to hide my vulnerability, and betrayal and loss appeared to be the outcome. I often felt confused, helpless, and alone.
Although I was fortunate to have the unwavering backing of trusted longtime friends, I had thought I could rely on those nearby who had sworn allegiance. However, that was not to be. Several who had pledged their loyalty and vowed lifelong friendship and support suddenly turned their backs on me, just as he had done. There was no explanation for the change, no concern for broken promises, no thought about the impact that their additional, unexpected abandonment had on me when I was already struggling to adjust to life in an unexpectedly altered way and was in such a fragile state. I was suddenly without the support upon which I had so desperately depended. Many just put me out of their minds. I felt as if I had become one of the group referred to as the walking wounded. My wounds, however, could not be seen, so they were easy to ignore. I understood the key to healing was not just seeking, but following, professional advice. I knew I had to find the strength to be less reactive and more proactive. I had to move forward with my life.
Down and up I went, struggling to regain my footing, hoping to find my equilibrium. I remained unable to find the resolution I so desperately sought in my efforts to reclaim normalcy after the shock of his leaving, followed by an absence of any type of communication from him. I had found a therapist. I was even working a bit in my profession, supervising student teachers at a local college. I had investigated the opportunity nearly two years before, when I had serendipitously met a woman at the fitness center wearing a sweatshirt from one of the local schools. I had struck up a conversation with her. Like I was, she was a relocated and
retired teacher. She was working part-time at the college, supervising student teachers. We agreed to meet for lunch at a later date to discuss details as our fitness class was about to begin. At lunch, she outlined the expectations of the position she held and provided insight into the rewards and the drawbacks of working with students. She provided the contacts for the three colleges in our area and wished me the best. I quickly sent my résumé to all three schools but was told there were currently no opportunities. When I got the call inquiring about my continued interest, it was poorly timed. Jim had been gone less than a year, and I was still confused by my new situation. However, I was well educated, vastly experienced, and looking for a diversion. Those first students probably did not get my best. I had received little training or guidance and was still finding it difficult to focus. Still, even at less than my personal best, I believed I provided them with the professional leadership and caring insights I attained over my thirty-year career. Yet the hits just kept on coming. Setback after setback occurred, and I again questioned my ability to endure.
When my daughters were toddlers, they had an inflatable clown that was child-size and weighted at the bottom. They would giggle with delight each time they punched him down and he returned to stand tall in front of them, awaiting the next blow. I felt as if my life were becoming that of the clown. Small but immediate challenges began to pop up. The outdoor blind snapped; the kitchen light that had just been working suddenly blew out; the garage door opener failed. I was tested further when the furnace gave out on the coldest of days, the main water valve to the house broke off, and I found myself balanced precariously, straddling a ladder and a railing as I tried to replace the bulbs in an outdoor light that had suddenly shattered in my hands. Problems began dramatically increasing in frequency and escalating in intensity as the weeks and months continued to pass. At least it seemed that way to me.
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