Memories of our best chocolate lab
Lucy wasn’t a religious dog, but in her own way, she was profoundly spiritual. For most of her puppyhood and adolescence, she lived with us in a tiny home at the Point Fermin end of San Pedro. Every week, like clockwork, she’d tilt her head up and stare at the sky—almost as if in prayer or meditation.
Soon, her “superior being” would arrive: the Goodyear blimp. Its motors hummed, audible only to her keen ears. It took a while for her nemesis to appear, but when it did, the behemoth circled our home, taunting her with every airborne minute. Lucy prayed and prayed—perhaps, we think, for world peace. To us, it sounded more like howling at the heavens. She seemed to believe you could be more than just a blimp worshipper and still belong to the Kingdom of God. In that kingdom, she’s now reunited with the adorable puppies and dogs from my childhood—Max, my old favorite German Shepherd; Jessie, whose memory fades; and others overshadowed by Lucy’s vibrant presence.
Good grief, it all makes perfect sense now. Our life’s goal should be to strive to be the person our dog already believes we are. You and I both know that’s an impossible task—we can’t turn back time.
Friedman once said, “Money can buy you a fine dog, but only love can make him wag his tail.” Our beloved pup passed away on Saturday, September 4, 2021. That loss at times, cuts as deep—or even deeper—than losing a human friend or relative.
So, what does losing a dog mean to this family now? It means no more morning “ruff” barks nudging us out of bed at her chosen hour, somewhere between zero dark thirty and sunrise. It means no more “wacka wacka”—her ears shaking side to side—signaling it’s time to pay attention and feed her. No more intense stares demanding her twice-daily walk. And at night, after dinner, she won’t be doing everything but talking to snag her treat.
It also means no more expensive twice-daily diabetic shots, administered lovingly for the past two years by the most caring “Mary Ann” I know—Patti. She’s perky, kind, upbeat, and utterly lovable, but also deeply sensitive—(I’m talking about the woman now and not the dog – a devoted dog lover. Healing from this loss will take time for her tender heart. “It’s only a dog—get over it,” the old war-machine version of me might’ve grumbled but those words never came out. But the newer, softer, more inclusive me stands in stark contrast to my partner in many ways. People change, and so do dogs—though dogs evolve far faster.
How many decades do those of you still reading have left? There are three ways to spend that time: try to save it (good luck), give it away or let it be taken, or invest it—traveling, seeing the world through the eyes of a child, an animal like Lucy, or an elderly soul. Or, you can squander it, maybe like I’m doing right now. Writing and recalling long ago forgotten history and listening to, The Marshal Tucker Band. Oh can’t you see, oh can’t you see; what that woman, Lod, she been doin’ to me? What that woman, she been doin’ to me?
Your life isn’t a countdown to death; it’s a stepping stone. Lucy the Lab, I can say with confidence, was the only dog who knew which side her bread was buttered on. Smarter than some of my nephews, nieces and certainly a few of our grandkids, she always knew exactly how to please—or whom to charm—to stay in good graces or dodge trouble.
When Lucy was young, she spent seven days a week chewing a different work shoe of Patti’s each day, even with a box of demolished chew toys nearby. Patti complained to her repeatedly, but it didn’t sink in. At the end of that week, she warned Lucy, “Stop picking on my things, or I’ll stop feeding you”—or something close to that. I think Lucy finally got it. The next day, I came home to find one of my work shoes mangled like it’d been hit by a train. I chased that pup around the house and into the backyard like a crazy madman. And I do believe, that I was armed at that time. (I just got home and that was a work requirement). Thinking that I now had her cornered, I hurled the unchewed mate of the ruined shoe at her. She ducked fast, and then just like that, we both called a truce. She was a quick learner. That’s how she learned—no more chewing our stuff.
Losing a dog means losing that extra nudge to leave the house for a walk. But that won’t stop us—we’re retired, and if I have my way, we’re heading on a long camino. It also means fewer chats with strangers on the trail, but that’s no issue either.
In the end, Lucy was nearly crippled by pain. Her spleen, doubling in size within a week, was close to rupturing, according to the vet. Even with CBD oil and pain pills, she couldn’t bear it much longer. Death is natural, but pointless suffering isn’t. Back in the day, they’d shoot a horse or animal in such agony. Today, her vet is making a final house call.
Lucy—always near, always protective of the grandkids. God bless. Rest in peace.
Ralph 3/20/2025
Trawlercat Chronicles 