When my mother died unexpectedly, there was no question that I would adopt her ex-racer greyhound, Lucy. I could no more give up Lucy than I could my own beloved greyhound, Elvis. However, Mom's other dog, Holden, wasn't as fortunate. His three-year bout with Cushing's disease, hip dysplasia and arthritis had taken its toll, leaving the 14-year-old lame and in pain. I was grateful that Mom had been spared the painful act of saying farewell to the dog she so adored.
And so, when affairs were finally settled three weeks later, I returned home - grief-stricken, weary and overwhelmed - accompanied by an addition to my household, Lucy. Mom's diminutive white greyhound had always gazed at me with an unabashed adoration that suggested that little hearts might start shooting from her limpid black eyes. I felt confident she'd make a smooth transition to her new home.
Or not.
Gone was the happy, prancing dog with a toy permanently affixed to her mouth. Instead, Lucy transformed overnight into a shy, skittish ghost of her former self. She wouldn't eat. Wouldn't play with her toys. Wouldn't come when called, shied away from Elvis and started having accidents in the house. Never on the hardwood floor, mind you, but on my pricey Persian rug. I was perplexed at her strange behavior, but even more so, I was mad. The shock and devastation of recent events had rendered my brain into a pile of mush and I was already at my wit's end. Now I had to contend with a neurotic dog?
When a friend suggested that I return to Mom's home and collect items Lucy might recognize, I initially resisted. Elvis had more than enough toys and pillows to share, and my small townhouse was already bursting with dog ware. Still, I was desperate, so I took the advice.
One sniff. That's all it took and Mom's joyful dog was back, her joie de vivre intact. Lucy pranced around with her ragged teddy bear; flipping it into the air, then pouncing on it before forsaking it to grab yet another reunited friend for a romp throughout the house. I watched in amazement as she greeted each tattered toy the same way. When she finally wore herself out, she retired to her familiar smelly pillow and rubbed her face repeatedly against the worn fleece before falling asleep.
And with a jolt, I realized that it wasn't just me who was mourning. In three short weeks, Lucy had lost her guardian; her companion, Holden; and the only home she had ever known outside her crate at the racetrack. Absorbed in my own grief, I hadn't noticed that Lucy was hurting too. She was lost and confused, not understanding why everything familiar had disappeared. Now, in a way, her loved ones were back, thanks to the cherished scents on the pillow she shared with Holden, the toys once touched by Mom.
That evening, for the first time, Lucy jumped on my bed. An unhygienic no-no, I'd always thought. That is, until she snuggled her knobby little head in the crook of my neck and heaved a contented sigh. When I couldn't bring myself to push her off, I realized it was because I didn't want to.
And with her soothing presence against my aching heart, we both fell asleep.
Like every story about dogs, it illustrates an important proof: the best person is better than the best dog, but we don't deal with the best people, we deal with the average, and the average dog is way better than the average person. Similarly, at the other end, the worst dog is better than the worst person. Any questions? Good; class dismissed.
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