This morning, I woke up and knew it was going to be a bad day.
No, it wasn't some sign from the gods, like rain or snow or having no power. It wasn't even the fever that I had acquired from an unfortunately-timed sinus infection. When I woke up this morning, I realized that it was September twelfth, the day that I lost you for the rest of my life.
When I was a kid, I was terrified of dogs, as some people just are. They seemed wild and uncontrollable, and I was scared that they were going to hurt me. This was a pretty big part of my life at the time, since I remember not even wanting to be around my aunt's dog who wouldn't hurt a fly. Then, one day when I was four years old, that changed. My parents and I had just finished grocery shopping at Biggs, and passed the SPCA site that had sprung up in the store next to Biggs. We found you and your siblings there, and I remember that for whatever reason, I wasn't scared of you, and you even used your tiny tongue to kiss my nose.
We ended up getting you, and I ended up naming you Lucy after going through a string of cringe-worthy dog names. I'll always remember that the Charlie Brown theme song was on TV, and that's why I chose that name for you.
From the start, you were a bundle of pure personality. You made Grandma bring an umbrella when we tried to get you to go outside in the rain. You loved riding in the car, and would always get mad at me if I had dared use my car seat. You were also smart, and found out ways to get into snacks for both dogs and people and, somehow, you feasted on chocolate without ever getting sick. You liked to nap and eat, and sometimes you even liked to go on walks.
No matter what I went through, you were there for it. When I fought with our parents, I had you. When I needed a friend, I could count on you to let me lay next to you on the carpet, which you always got your hair all over, and pet you until I felt better. You gave me kisses when I was starting out with my mental disorders, and you let me cry into your copious amounts of fur when I had my heart broken by boys that I don't even remember the names of now. Whenever we moved or I had to go see my trail of therapists, you were there to endure it with me.
You lived a really, really good life. I knew that when I heard about what happened to you one year ago today, and I know that now. You lived to be fourteen years old, in which you got to do whatever you wanted and ate Hershey Kisses and Andes Mints like nobody's business. Everybody loved you, and I think you secretly loved everyone, too. But that doesn't make it easier to say goodbye to you, and it doesn't make me any happier when I think about you.
People always talk about dogs being part of the family, but you never feel it as much as when it's time for the family member to leave you. No matter how much less pain you're in now that you've crossed over the Rainbow Bridge, it still hurts me to know that you're gone, and have been for a whole year now. When I lost you, I didn't just lose the dog that I got when I was four; I lost the best friend that I'd ever had and ever will have.
