It occurred to me while looking through previous posts that I have shared a couple of pictures of our little critter without properly introducing her. This is our dog, Lucy. She just had her 11th birthday, but she’s a pretty spry little lady for her advanced years. She follows (or leads) us on hikes, sneezes at the smell of hand sanitizer, explores our acre, perks her ears at the word “beach”, eats broccoli til she’s stuffed, smiles at visitors to our home, and sleeps with us.
Eleven years ago, when I really wanted to get a dog, Rick did not want a dog. He quipped that he was going to write a book entitled, “491 Reasons Not to Get a Dog”. I kept bringing it up, though, and finally he suggested we each write a list of reasons supporting our divergent positions on the subject. His list contained several practical points about dog ownership that I could not refute, such as:
1. Dogs make messes.
2. Dogs are a hassle—when you want to travel, you have to make arrangements for them.
3. Dogs mean extra expenses for food, veterinary care, etc.
My list, on the other hand, contained one item and it was purely emotional:
1. But . . . I want a dog.
We exchanged lists and he said, “Well, I can see I’ve lost this battle—go get your dog!”
So I did! I drove to Idaho where some friends of our kids had a litter of Jack Russell mix puppies, and I brought home this tiny, whimpering, six-week-old, brown furball, and then asked myself, “Oh, my! What have I done?”
She has turned out to be a great friend to both Rick and me. Yeah, I have to say, she won him over so fast! I like to think she loves us both the same, but truly, if she had to choose, she’d choose Rick.
Over the years, she has developed some quirky habits that make us laugh and wonder. We are not fastidious housekeepers—our dirty socks from the night before are often still on the floor the next day. Lucy will carefully fold one sock in half and carry it, soft-mouthed, to Rick or me and drop it at our feet. Or, she might furtively sneak out the front door, into the chips surrounding the garden boxes and “bury” it, though it’s always in plain sight. Except for the time she buried one of the socks I knitted for Rick—that one was NOT in plain sight! We finally found it several months later with grass roots growing through it. I must say, however, that the wool held up well and after a thorough washing, he still wears those socks!
We have tried to attach some deeper meaning to the sock ritual, asking ourselves why she does it . . . is she perhaps bringing the sock to us as a gift? When I mentioned this to our daughter, she replied with this dose of reality: “Mom, maybe she’s just trying to tell you to pick your socks up off the floor!” Ummm . . . No, I don’t think that’s it . . .
Anyway, for all you dog lovers out there, I hope your dog brings you as much good-humored enjoyment and amiable companionship as Lucy dog does us!