It’s been a year since we said goodbye to Lacy, and I wanted to take a moment to share two more stories about her.
The first, is The Cone.
We met Lacy when she was six years old. She had not been spayed. We brought her home, and had some friends over the following week. My friend Jake remarked, “I want to be Lacy’s favorite.” Immediately she started humping him.
“Not like this!” he yelled, pinned to the ground.
We got her spayed shortly afterwards.
Due to the surgery, Lacy had to wear a cone.
Lacy was a big dog. Lacy was a sweet dog. Lacy was not a particularly bright dog. In particular, she never mastered the subtle arts, like going backwards. When lacy wanted to solve a problem, she usually reached for “Brute Strength”. It served her well. That’s how she escaped our yard, after all..
When Lacy wore the cone, she didn’t always fit in places she used to. She would turn her head from side to side, moving forward. My wife had big scrape marks on both her legs from Lacy just plowing right ahead, oblivious to the resistance offered by flesh and calf.
Often, I’d find her favorite toy of the day (usually Squirrel) tucked into the bottom of the cone, by her neck. She’d drop it, and never once look down to wonder where it had gone. Perhaps she found comfort in the soft press of stuffed animal against her chest.
Once, I returned home from work and was surprised that I was not greeted by Labrador, as was tradition. “Lacy?” I called out. There was no response.
I peeked further into the apartment and saw Lacy standing with her cone pressed firmly against a wall. I called her name again, and her tail wagged fiercely. I pushed her head slightly to the left, allowing Daylight in, and Lacy made a break for her water bowl, drinking deep.
“How long have you been stuck there?” I asked. Lacy did not answer.
Lacy loved small dogs. She loved to stand over them and just feel big.
Once, we took her to an off-leash dog park, and she managed to gather a small crowd of four or five tiny dogs, the kind you can pick up in your hand. She sat proud and smiling, with a whole pile of tiny dogs at her feet.
Then one of the owners noticed, and swooped in, yelling in fear. She scooped up her dog, screaming incoherently. The other owners swept in, picking up their dogs and turning away, or glaring with fear and anger at Lacy, this big dog that they felt threatened by.
Lacy, for her part, did not notice, except that her new friends were gone.
Lacy would always, always, always carry a stuffed toy in her mouth. Guests would think she wanted to fetch, and they’d try to take it from her. She would often refuse to let go, confusing our guests. Other times, she’d surrender the toy, and our guests would throw it across the room, and Lacy would look up at them with sadness and confusion for the betrayal.
When she did want to fetch, she’d bring a ball and drop it at your feet. If you didn’t respond fast enough, she’d pick it up and drop it again, In case maybe you didn’t notice the first time.
I’ve played with a lot of dogs, but none of them are as good at fetch as she was. She would run and get the ball, and bring it all the way back before dropping it at your feet. Sometimes she would, admittedly, need a little prompting to drop it and let me pick it back up.
Our big dog Benzo is pretty good at fetch. I think it’s the Golden Retriever in him. If I throw a ball, him and Maeve (Pyrenese) will both go after it, but Maeve will just hold it. This irritiates Ben so bad, he’ll grab it from her mouth and run it back, fulfilling the contract. If I throw the ball around a corner, I can tell which of them got to it first by how long the return takes.
My parents dog was named Sadie. She was enormous. She wasn’t supposed to be, but Sadie was a rescue who had lived a hard life. And she had Cushing’s disease. By the end of her life, Sadie looked less like the (already large) dog I first met, and more like the dog that ate Sadie.
Anyway, Sadie loved me. I was her second-favorite person in the world, after my grandma. Whenever I visited, she would hobble-run over to me and lick my knee through my jeans. Sadie! No licky! I would shout. Sadie would nod, and lick me again, to show that she understood.
Lacy was not a licker. I was glad for this! She only ever licked me once. It was the day Sadie died. My parents took her to the vet, and called me afterwards to let me know. Lacy walked up to me, licked my knee through my jeans, and then settled back down.
In 2020, I started a new remote job. I shared a picture of me and Lacy. Later on, I met my team in person, and the who group gasped when they saw how tall I was (I’m 6’4). “You didn’t say you were tall!” One complained. Another looked me up and down, mild horror creasing his face. “How big is your dog?”
Lacy used to herd me to bed. My wife would go to sleep earlier than me, and I’d hole up in the office, writing. Lacy would come up behind me and breathe deeply. It was the same way she used to beg for food. Just breathing heavily until she got what she wanted. Once we became foster parents, Lacy fell in love with our first kiddo, and slept in his bed (I’ll note she never seemed to care about how late he stayed up!)
But for years, Lacy would huff and puff and snout me until I was ready to sleep. She wouldn’t rest until the whole house was accounted for.
