Goodbye to Lucy

I didn't know it would be so hard to say goodbye. After the x-rays had shown an aggressive tumor in her right shoulder bone and the doctor had given his sad prognosis, after her right front leg had become so painful she could barely walk, I matter-of-factly decided to put her down.

But when, finally, she lie there on the floor of the vet's office after the injection had caused her first to become quiet, then to nod, then finally to lay her head down to sleep, the implications of my matter-of-fact decision started to become clear: A piece of my soul was gone forever.

I once read about the discovery of a prehistoric grave of a young woman who had been buried with much care and adornment. Lying next to her, and equally adorned, was her dog. The scholars said it showed the profound spiritual connection between prehistoric humans and dogs.

I get it now: this deep, deep connection we can have with these amazing creatures.

Later that day, after many sobs and tears, our family went to our back porch to let go of a helium balloon. It was our way of saying goodbye to Lucy. The balloon quickly floated up over our roof and was no longer visible, and I assumed that was the end of it. But then Rob ran out to the sidewalk for another glimpse of it, and David spotted it far off in the eastern sky.

And I suddenly saw Lucy, with her beautiful red hair rippling in the evening breeze and her eyes so bright and happy, running so freely and painlessly into the clear blue sky.