|Somewhere along the way, Cinco and Lucy became best friends.|
People are coming to say goodbye to her. She made a lot of friends, this dog. People tell me their stories and they tell me I'm doing the right thing and to be strong. I will be that person on the other side someday, offering my condolences to a raw, aching person like myself right now.
The vet will come tomorrow afternoon. I have learned the code for this type of visit is a "house call." He will administer a shot that will put her in the "twilight." Then a megadose of anesthesia. And she will drift out.
Cinco, her little Chihuahua brother, has become protector. He licks her constantly to make her better. He stands guard and won't let people get too close. In solidarity, he won't eat any food either. He won't leave her side. I take comfort in this. We are a pack.
I spend time curled up in a nest of pillows with her, breathing in the last of her doggie smell. Probably smells like gross old sick dog to everyone else. I reminded her today about the time she ate a whole Easter basket and pooped out pastel foil wrappers for two days after. About the time we flew on a seaplane to the Gulf Islands and I had told the pilot beforehand that she was a lap dog -- I didn't mention she'd take three people's laps though. About the times she'd been attacked by other dogs, and I jumped in to tear those bastards off her. That I would give any piece of blood or bone or flesh from myself to make her better.
When I look at her I think, "She's a perfectly good dog. She's just got all these things wrong with her. But other than that, she's a perfectly good dog."
If you think you have the best dog in the world, I am sorry. You are just wrong. You might have the best dog for your city or state or village or whatever, but Lucy is the best dog in the world. I know this truly. The best. The best. The best dog in the whole world, today, tonight and forever.