Monday, September 22, 2014 

Bad night again. Little sleep. I kept hearing noises and went out to investigate. I heard something being dragged a short distance in the yard. Nothing there. Basement, garage. Nothing going on. But at least my attempt at detection provided Valentino a potty break. Betty called early, but I decided not to go out. Val and I went out later and walked past the spot where Lucy left us, where I held her so dearly. She was like a feather in my arms, as gentle in passing as she was in living—well, for the most part. She had been rough on Lorenzo, very rough. The dominance game.

Mom still asks about Lucy. She is still the “White Dog.” She asks if Valentino knows or is he is looking for Lucy. He knows.

 

Saturday, September 20, 2104

I awoke in a different country. Valentino was sleeping peacefully on the couch. He had come upstairs to sleep on one of Lucy’s beds for a while. But then retreated back downstairs. I petted him for a bit and we talked. He followed me back upstairs and went to lie down on Lucy’s bed again. I am glad I washed the dog beds last week before company came, because the beds are somewhat fresh and I don’t want to wash Lucy’s scent away just yet. Valentino needs her scent, which I am sure, is everywhere to my untutored nose. I read a bit of Jon Katz’s book, Going Home. It made sense. It’s helping, but at least Lucy spared me the “awful decision,” taking her to the vet for euthanasia. She died in my arms on her own terms and after a great morning. I am so glad I gave her the extra dollop of yogurt. Had I known, I would have made her bacon!

Before we took our walk, Barb came over to give me a hug. The word is out in the neighborhood, of course. Lucy died in public. She was a star of sorts, a beauty, at least in my eyes. And I am The Poodle Lady, proudly so. Toward the end, Lucy had so many warts and growths and lipomas, but she managed to look beautiful nonetheless. She never appeared disfigured the way Prince did. The children were less likely to pet her and more likely to ask What happened to her because of the bandage I kept around her middle to ward off Val’s licks.

Our walk this morning was quiet. Somber. So was Val’s breakfast. I moistened his food too much, made enough for two dogs. And the yogurt ritual seemed to have lost its gloss. I used to go between bowls on either side of the island: one teaspoon for Val, one teaspoon for Lucy, until each had 3 teaspoons and a licky. This morning, I stood behind Val and dropped the first teaspoon into his bowl, after which he walked away. Maybe he meant to check Lucy’s bowl and see if I deposited any there. But I filled his bowl and he finished his allotment of yogurt dutifully. It isn’t a joyful morning. It’s a different country, a different household. Val didn’t bark as I stripped the bed for laundering. He didn’t pace to go outside. He just went outside. No drama. No Lucy.

Mom remembers this morning. Her only question is, How did the White Dog die?