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Lucy

by R.C. McLeod

By Rebecca McLeodPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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photos by R.C. McLeod

As the morning sunrise peeks between the blinds, she lays with unfurled paws on the cushion beside me, feet twitching as she slumbers half-buried under the blanket. At the sound of the first alarm, she stretches, head lolling back just enough so that deep chocolate eyes can glance at me. Am I stirring, or snoozing the alarm for another few moments? When it stops and I shift, she bolts from the plush surface and dives to find her toy of choice for the day; its hard to choose sometimes, but she makes a quick decision and nimble limbs lunge back to the couch with her.

“Did you bring me Lambchop?” I ask lazily, clumsy hands reaching for the plush toy and snatching it away. She pulls it back, tugging with strength that is haughtily disguised by her limber frame, but her fluffy tail wags vigorously. As I manage to pull it away, she recoils, tail still wiggling as she dips into a play bow. She growls playfully, then barks sharply to let me know she wants it.

Most mornings begin this way, though Lucy sometimes prefers to stay pressed against my leg beneath the blanket long passed the sound of the alarm; on these days, I jokingly call her my “bad influence” while stroking a silky-smooth coat. I’ve had many dogs in the past – many amazing creatures that have long since passed (though never wandering too far from my mind and memory).

But there is no other dog like my Lucy.

Affectionately called “Goose” because she is so silly, Lucy has toys counting into the double-digits. Most of these she recognizes by name – though none are quite as special as her favorite Lambchop. I always give a little smile as the key hits the lock each day when I get home from work, and I hear the patter of toenails against hardwood as she leaps from the couch and races to the door. When it swings open, her tail swings to-and-fro, ears back, and a different toy than yesterday held between her jaws. I giggle and pull her leash from the hook; I tell her to drop it, and she does – but only for the moment that her martingale slips over her head and for the kiss on my nose as I pull the collar to her neck. Before I straighten, she’s already scooped her toy up and is ready to go.

She does this most anytime she knows she’s leaving the house, too – whether it’s just to go for a ride or go spend the day with her auntie, she takes one with her. There’s nothing quite as comical as getting to that brief lull in conversation and hearing her squeak a toy or bounce her ball on the floor to remind you she’s always game for playtime.

Despite her silliness, she is quite a brat. She doesn’t sit on the floor or in a dog bed like those commoners at my sister’s house – she has a throne, her own pillow to keep her comfy. Dainty and prissy, a lady chews only one kibble at a time – and goodness knows she doesn’t eat from the floor. No, she only eats upon the couch cushion away from any dust that might be lurking. The door opens and the whispers of rain reach her ears; eyes meet mine, wide and beseeching as she goes back inside.

And in my darkest times, when my mind succumbs to depression and my body can no longer muster the strength to ward off the symptoms, she curls beside me with one of those toys. She knows I might not want to play, but she lays it by me anyway. Not for play…but for comfort. And for as long as I need, she will lay at my side as a beacon in my darkest moments.

I watch her, and often I’m awed by her intelligence and personality. She came into my life seemingly by chance, though perhaps sent by an onlooking invisible guardian. I often wonder how her family discarded her with a shelter…and what I did to deserve her. As the years go by, I begin to feel dread creeping up into my chest – the knowledge that I will long outlive her is stifling. Part of me fears I won’t survive it – even if I’ve survived the loss of many great pets before her.

Yet still…the knowledge only makes me cherish those little moments more: the morning playtime after the first alarm; the storm-cloud pacing and lazy snuggles; the cuddles and comfort during sadness… I’ll cherish them long after she leaves me.

And then, I’ll look forward to seeing what toy she greets me with at the end of the rainbow bridge.

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About the Creator

Rebecca McLeod

I am a YA-speculative fiction writer with a focus in sci-fi/fantasy. Writing has always been a passionate passtime for me, and has grown into my adult aspirations. For more about me, visit my personal site at www.rcmcleod.home.blog.

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