We put my dog down last week.
My friend Rachel came over once we knew it was the day. I was volunteering at my son’s school when my wife called in tears.
Lacy wouldn’t stop throwing up.
I drove straight home and read her Clifford until she dozed off. We spent the next few hours breaking the news to the kids and laying on the floor with her, letting her know she was loved.
This isn’t a story about those tender moments, but one that followed.
On the way to the vet’s office, I put on music. I wanted to fill the air, not bask in that final silence. Rachel drove. I was in no shape to, and we both knew it. Instead, I sat twisted in my seat, one arm stretched backwards to pet Lacy. We all knew there wouldn’t be a return trip.
You have to be careful when filling the air. I once went to a wedding where the first song after the father–daughter dance was Scotty Doesn’t Know. I can only speculate on the DJ’s tip.
Two weeks earlier, I played No-Tell Motel, a brilliantly evocative game about being an overnight desk manager at a seedy motel when a murder occurs. It comes with a soundtrack.
Perfect, I thought. Nothing I have emotional attachment to, nothing that will form memories.
The thing about seedy motels is the thin walls. And the sex. Rachel is driving to the vet, Lacy and I are sitting in a silence she’s careful not to layer onto. And the music is playing. Or, the soundtrack anyway. It’s a woman moaning sensually over a faint beat. I ignore it, certain it will pass. How long can this part of the song be? 15 seconds? 30? At 45, I felt I needed to explain myself. I didn’t know how. After a minute I skipped the track, mumbling something about memories.
It wasn’t funny then, but I can laugh now.
A week ago we said goodbye to our dog. When I broke the news to a friend, he responded like this
The first time this friend (we’ll call him Kyle, because well, that’s his name) met Lacy it was to drive her to be boarded for a couple days while my wife and I were traveling. Kyle pulled up and popped his trunk to put her food in the back. Without hesitation, Lacy jumped in to trunk, resurfacing with a tennis ball she had found inside. She immediately and implicitly loved everyone she ever met.
Kyle’s favorite Lacy story comes from a board game night at his house. We’d been introducing Lacy ot his two cats. They got along find, but had a healthy respect for one another. Mostly, Lacy was scared senseless of them1. But we had been practicing, and they were comfortable. Until the cheese incident.
Kyle tossed his cat a small piece of cheese. The cat didn’t want the cheese, not all at once, but it sat on it, biding its time. Lacy walked by — TOO CLOSE to the cheese (a tiny morsel, Lacy wasn’t even aware of it), and the cat struck, defending its claim.
We settled the dust, and I gave Lacy a treat, coaxing her to do tricks. Sit, I’d say, and she sat. Wait, I’d say, and she’d wait. Roll over, I said, and she refused. You know this one! I pleaded. Kyle saw it first. Lacy looked at me, and then, without moving her head, turned just her eyes over towards the cat. Papa, she silently pleaded, I cannot show my belly now. There are villains about.
Kyle would think of Lacy side-eyeing his cat and just laugh and laugh.
I met lacy when she was 6. Kyle met her a few years later. I’ve been telling stories about Lacy for the last 6 years and I don’t intend to stop now. Some of them, I’ll even share here.
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Lacy was never very good at reading social cues. The first time I met her, she was trying to run up and sniff a large dog that was actively snarling at her. I have a theory that when she was a young dog, before I met her, she met a cat. Like most creatures she met, Lacy’s first instinct would have been to sniff its entire butthole. The cat probably flattened its ears, may have hissed. Lacy tried to go snout deep and got wallopped on the snout this is all speculation!. The lesson Lacy learned was “Cats are mean and will attack for no reason and with no warning”. She was not always a very clever dog. ↩