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Here I Am

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photoHello to all my two-legged friends on Planet Earth. It’s Lucy Doodle here, your Girl-Dog-Blogger-Being, sending my love to you all.

I wanted to remind you, especially my mommies:

I am right here.

Here I am, in this sunrise. If you stop and breathe and smell, you can smell my doggie toes.

Here I am, in the new spring bird chirping in this freezing morning. If you listen, you can hear my breath, too.

Here I am, not just jumping into the pond (yummy, I loved that so much!), but being the pond.

You guys, I am the pond!

That’s cool and fun.

We’re all the pond, but you guys are too busy living in your earth jackets to remember that.

So everybody, especially my mommies, chill out.

Remember what I said about being in doggie heaven? I meant that heaven is everywhere!

Spirit is all.

We are all together, all the time.

So relax my friends. I am good, beyond-good.

All is so, so very good. No matter what is happening.

Love,
Your Spirited Spirit,
L.D. Doodle the Dog/Bird/Pond/the Everything

Was It You?

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Dear Lucy,

The other morning I woke tentatively into my new normal—-the emptiness of those first breaths without you.

As I cautiously moved myself into the day, I did the things I do; I dressed, I brushed, I walked Zac, I prayed, I ate, I prayed some more. I readied myself for another day living within your absence.

Congratulating myself on feeling emotionally “together and level”, I backed the car out of the garage, willfully focused on moving toward work.

This is good, I thought. I’m moving forward.

The morning was still soft and the light, still early. Slices of new sunlight made its way through the trees on the mountain, crisscrossing the road with patterns of possibility. My heart relaxed into its beauty.

And as I turned the car left to begin the climb up the hill, passing the white house to my right, the one I have driven past a thousand times before, everything inside of me froze: standing in the yard on the hill, facing into the new morning was a blond Doodle dog.

She was just standing there, facing out, greeting the new day, appreciating the light, I imagined, not unlike me.

I pulled over—not a car in sight—and looked at her, drinking in her presence. Silhouetted against the morning light, she just stood there, in all her Doodle-ness, about your size, not as cute, of course (our constant refrain for the twelve years of your life, upon seeing other dogs was, “Cute but not as cute as Lucy”).

I felt, I heard, a wail release from me, and then another, a new level of loss emerging, releasing into this day.

She saw me seeing her. Her tail, yours, perhaps, began tentatively waging, once, twice, the beat picking up.
She wagged her good morning, with curiosity and the possibility of some new fun.

I sat, hands clutching the steering wheel, heart cleaved open again to the loss, to the beauty of this exquisite and excruciating moment.

I forced another breath into my heaving heart, offered my silent farewell, and urged the car away, up the hill, over the mountain, into the new day without you.

Having you so close, as I left you behind, I drove toward the sunlight on the ridge.

My Pack

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familyHi, this is Lucy Doodle, reporting from dog-heaven. I still have a lot to say so here I am, saying it.

My pack had one doggie brother in it and two mommies. I am thinking about my brother right now. More about my mommies some other time.

Here is a picture of us. I can see in my eyes that I don’t feel good there, but that never stopped me from bossing him around.

My brother’s name is Zac Joseph Doodle. Even though he is tall, dark, handsome and a strong young boy, I was always, ALWAYS in charge. He knew that and played good inside knowing that.

I loved chasing him around the apple tree in big giant circles. He would get so excited and scared that he’d run behind the bush in the corner of the yard. The people called that bush Tillie (I don’t know what that means—I think maybe it’s the name of one of my mommies’ mommy). He would dig and dig and be really excited about everything. My one mom got mad about it but I thought it was so funny.

Or he’d run to the other corner by the house and dig really crazy and wild there, too. Like, he would try to dig to a place of sanctuary, freed from my chasing. Ha!

When I was sick, the people gave me less food more often in the day. (Bastards! People, hear me on this: never do that, it upsets us doggies terribly). I would just make a tiny noise sound and he would walk away from his food bowl, leaving me a few nibbles.

I trained Zac well.

We played different. I loved the ball and chasing my mommies with it. He would rather look out the window, scanning the universe for bunnies or something moving out there.

Maybe it’s a boy-thing.

One summer my mommies and I kept playing this elaborate game of badminton with detailed rules, like when I had to sit, who got the point, why I couldn’t eat the birdie, and stuff like that. I always won, anyway. Zac would play with us for about four seconds, get bored, and go smelling for bunny poop to eat.

I taught him about eating stuff, bunny poop or frozen apples or my mom’s vitamins.

Zac taught me about cuddling. Before him I didn’t realize that could be so fun. He showed me how to lean into my mommies when they were on the couch or in a chair. Then they would get all happy and touch and rub me a real lot.

We hung out good during the days without the people. He did what I told him, sometimes pulled stuff down from tall places to eat that wasn’t food (yummy!). He was strong enough to do my bidding.

We had fun.

He’s a little confused and sad now. He doesn’t know why my mommies are paying so much attention to him and talking so loudly and so much. I’m reminding him to relax and enjoy the rubbing.

So—that’s my message today. Relax and enjoy the rubbing while the rubbing is happening, no matter how many legs you have.

Oh, and have fun with your pack. Even if they are not like you and make you mad, they are probably there to teach you how to have more fun, in different and new ways.

That’s my expert doggie advise.

Okay, over and out.

Love to all my four-legged and two-legged friends down there in the snow and everything else there is on earth.

Signed, Lucy Kay Doodle, Dog-Blogger-from-Beyond

Dear Lucy

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Here is a picture of us, a really long time ago, when you were shorter and alive and I had no hair. I can remember the smell of your baby fur and that look of assured-almost-annoyance in your eyes.

Wow, you were such a looker, from the moment we picked you up at the airport. You always said it to the animal communicator:

“I’m the cutest.”

You said this with a certainty that belayed pride or canine-ego. You just knew the truth, from tiny baby-dog-hood, and lived into it.

You were right. You always were the cutest. You always will be.

I remember the first morning you lived at our house, which, by the way, never would be the same again. I had the flu and Ras took you for your first walk down the road, Oak Road, your road.

I remember lying in bed, talking to my mom on the phone. The door opened–you both came back too soon.

I remember Ras standing at the bedroom door, your tiny body tucked under one arm, Ras’ right wrist heaved and askew. She had fallen on the ice and obviously had broken that very essential right wrist.

There is much blurred memory now—your dog crate, the emergency room, pain pills, more hospital, supportive friends, the tiny blond self-assured dog becoming my full responsibility—I who was committed to being the sues-chef of dog raising. I am a great second. But now it was on me and I didn’t know how, I was positive.

But it is what you said to the animal communicator that was my first big Lucy Doodle Lesson. We called when things settled a tad, not wanting you to harbor guilt from Ras’ fall.

We checked in with your twelve-week-old-self.

I will never forget what you said:

“It’s not my fault. She fell.”

Your capacity to not assume responsibility for that which wasn’t yours—your ability to have a boundary that asserts love but not co-dependency—to be in relationship without assuming that which is not your responsibility—these are lessons I am still learning.

Dear Lucy,

I miss you so much. I know you are dancing with the snowflakes right now, but I miss your blondness, your face peering around the corner of the bedroom door, the sound of your feet on the wood flood, the smell of your delicious dog toes, the breath of your presence.

Dear Lucy, my teacher.

Dear Lucy.

Down the Road? Or Not?

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Hi, it’s me, Lucy Doodle, up here, dancing with the light. It’s really fun being dead and my legs work better and better all the time.

You guys, my fans and my readers: I’m love-you-love-you-love-you, maybe more now than before.

When I was playing with my friends here in dog-heaven, I was thinking about the last day I was alive. Both of my mommies went outside with me, because we didn’t know if I could walk. I peed, wow, did that feel good. Everybody was happy.

Then I looked down the road.

Ah, the road. How many times did I walk down that road? I love that road. It smells so good, each time different and delicious, all kinds of smelly adventures waiting everywhere for me to explore.

So many adventures on my road:

Like, footprints in the snow of all kinds of creatures, yum, to put my nose right inside!

Yummy nibbles of odd and disgusting things to crunch on.

Snow to rub-rub-rub my itchy face on.

On that road. On my road.

That morning, after I peed, after I looked down my road, I looked at my mommy. She looked at me. Together, without saying anything, we knew I wasn’t going to walk down my road. Not that day.

So we went inside and then it was almost over.

So, my friends, here’s my message—to everybody down there:

Walk down your road!

Smell everything.

Put your nose right into life and sniff it up.

It’s a delicious road, no matter what’s happening.

Do it now—really, I’m serious.

Because…..why wouldn’t you?

What could be more important?

And you never know–when it’s going to be your last chance to pee outside, to smell the bunny footprints, or to eat gross things.

Okay?

Okay, over and out, for now. That’s the news from dog heaven.

Oh, p.s.—I’m right here, so don’t be so sad.

Love, Your friend the Dog,
Lucy Doodle

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