Moving On: The last Lucky post (perhaps)

My friends, (including the bloggy "imaginary" ones), coworkers, family and extended family have been totally awesome as I have spent a fitful, sleep-deprived, starving week of missing my precious Lucky. This will be my last post about him, as I am determined to live with the wonderful memories and not dwell in misery.

Move on.

I never thought I would miss him so much, particularly since his last few days he was struggling so. But with Ron Burgundy always working evenings, it has been Lucky and me, just the two of us, all the time for nearly 15 years. In his able years, evenings were our walk time, snuggle in bed time, discipline time, bite realtors in the crotch bark at the doorbell time. Remember, he was terrified of people who wore sunglasses.

These last few months it was simply nurse and patient. Loving, palliative care given by former. Looks and gestures of sincere appreciation by latter.

It was a bond that was all too familiar, as so many of these interactions conjured up thoughts of my dad as he lived out his final years in the throes of Alzheimers. I think my dad always knew more than he was able to communicate. I could see it in his eyes.

There were some real God moments that got me through this week.

Lucky put his head back and looked me straight in the eye as his pupils dilated, his heart thumped its last beat, and he crossed to the Rainbow Bridge. That puddle of pee was probably his final hurrah for me, too. But in that moment, his cataract-covered eyes became that deep chocolate brown again and appeared instantly healed. I didn't think much of it at the time. It was probably just a physical change that was occurring as life left his frail body. I was too selfishly distraught at that time to cry out to God and thank him for eternal healing of those beautiful expressive eyes.

We bundled Lucky up like a baby in one of the boys' old bedspreads to bring him home to his resting place. The vets and their staff, all teary and compassionate, ushered us out the back door to the truck. When we got in, Ron Burgundy's lip trembled a bit as he recollected what a loyal friend Lucky had been. I slowly uncovered Lucky's precious face and held him like a baby. "The tumor on his nose seems like it's hardly there," I offered. I'm not sure RB was paying attention. I stroked Lucky's ears and nose all the way home, and we proceeded to dig his final place of rest.

RB went back to the garage to get a different shovel, and sitting beside the lifeless bundle, I lifted the bedspread back one more time. His face was so perfect. I stroked his ears. His open brown eyes did not freak me out in the least. They were clear and beautiful.

And then I stroked his nose. His perfect nose.

I swear, as God is my witness, there was no tumor there.

I didn't say anything to RB and we proceeded with the burial, but the vision of that perfect nose will forever stay with me. A few hours later when talking to my son's girlfriend, I told her. Good ole Rachel, she got to be the first one to bear the brunt of my post-mortem meltdown crazies. I hesitantly told her about the tumor being gone.

"He's healed now," she said. And she didn't think I was crazy at all.

Yesterday, a letter arrived from my mom who is up at her trailer on the river summer home in Wisconsin. She had run across a disposable camera with expired film that she decided to get developed last week. She included three pictures that were on that film.

We have no idea when they were taken, at least a year ago, but what a bittersweet thing to receive them. Just another God thing - she never really wanted to waste film on the dog.

Wasn't he beautiful? Look how his ears are perked up! That was his healthy self.

Almost as healthy as he is now as he is perfectly healed.

No. More. Tears.

Tea tonight: Genmaicha