A year ago today, we lost our Lucas.
I couldn’t write about it then–except to let you, our kind friends, know he was gone. I didn’t think I could write about it now either. See, the thing is, I felt like we failed him. We lost him too soon, so it had to be our fault.
I know this is irrational. I’m very, logically, rationally aware that these are irrational feelings, but here’s how it went: Emmett was given a 6-month prognosis. He’s surpassed that so profoundly that he’s routinely declared a miracle. So, of course, when they told us that Lukey’s protocol–amputation plus four chemo treatments–would statistically likely give him another one to two years–a normal lifespan, really, for a shepherd at that point–the six month decline felt like we did something wrong. Or, more accurately, it’s the overarching sense of guilt about all of it.
Again, I realize all that’s irrational. I do. It’s just been a long, intense grief process. And it’s been hard to write. Oh-so-hard. And I’m forever grateful to those of you who reached out, who noticed.
Here’s the thing that I haven’t yet overcome:
I’m a storyteller. I want to be open and authentic and transparent. But I found myself unable to tell Lukey’s story, at least his final story, and so I found myself unable to tell ANY story. So, I stopped writing. Mostly, anyway.
And that felt like a failure. Writers are supposed to write. The good ones write through blocks. But, I just couldn’t do it.
And, so, here is a bit of that untold story, the one that has clogged my heart and my hands… and it’s simple, really.
We knew it was coming. We knew, but we kept hoping.
Then, the oncologist showed us his lung X-rays. “I’m sorry,” he said.
But, still, we hoped.
Then we noticed a bit of swelling in his back legs. And he coughed a smidge. Cady stayed with us for the weekend, and the two stayed in the garden, side-by-side. Waiting. Then Cady went home and his legs were swollen more and his coughing was getting more pronounced, so we took him to our local vet, just to see if there was anything, anything at all.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
She wrote her cell phone number on a slip of paper. She told us to call her, day or night, even on her days off, and she’d come over. We cried. She cried.
We took him home. We slept on the living room floor. We ordered him pizza and a Jimmy John’s Gargantuan sub. We rubbed his ears and massaged his swollen legs. We told him we loved him over and over.
Some of his favorite people came by. They said “to visit,” which we appreciated so very much, but everyone knew. He was saying his goodbyes. And even though he couldn’t, he kept trying to jump up, to greet his friends with howls and wags and those big amber-brown eyes. They still shined with happiness those last few days, those final few hours. He had such a happy life.
Then the day came. He couldn’t get up. No, that’s not even it. He didn’t want to get up. We knew it was coming, but it was such a shock. Today’s the day. How can that be? How can any of this be?
Our lovely vet did come over. She brought a sweet tech from the animal hospital. We sat with him. We hugged him and told him how much we loved him. We let him go.
After he was gone, Cooper curled up against his stomach and just nestled. It shattered us all, the tenderness of that gesture, the knowing.
They left, and we were left with that emptiness, that space Lucas filled… physically in his giant, bouncy, perma-puppy body, and emotionally, too, the years of worrying about him and for him.
That emptiness is still there, but it feels different now. It’s not about the habits or the routines or the daily Lucas-less-ness of our days. Instead, it’s an ache for a presence that is somehow there but not there. A ghost heart.
Not a day goes by that we don’t put him in the context of what’s going on now. “Lucas would have LOVED this,” or “OMG, can you imagine if we had Lucas in this scenario?” We pretend him into being regularly. We joke that he haunts Newt.
And a year? This milestone? It is both forever and a blink.
His loss left a hole. That hole is still there. It’s just changed shape a bit, the sides and edges are a little softer, a little lighter. Oh, but what I wouldn’t give to bury my face his his thick, fuzzy neck and breathe him in.
I remember in the first few days after he died doing things… normal things, like stand in line at the grocery checkout or put gas in my car. I remember looking around at all the people swirling around me and thinking how amazing it was. Here I was, looking like a totally normal person doing person things, swiping my card, getting my reusable shopping bags out of my purse, and all those people around me had absolutely no idea that my world had crumbled only days ago.
Imagine, of course, how many people around us all the time have only just had their worlds crumbled, too.
Great loss is a great reminder to be kind.
So, that is where I am one year later. I miss him like crazy. I feel the space he used to take up. But I’m astonished at my luck that I got to take care of him in the first place. That he was my special little guy for eight wonderful, difficult, funny, frustrating years. He struggled and overcame so much, while staying true to himself. My life is richer forever because I got to bear witness to his evolution.
It’s been one year since we lost Lucas, but he’s left me with a lifetime of a deeper love and patience and gratitude and kindness. He was so special and fought so hard. He taught me so much about bravery and about joy, and his life–and, it turns out, his death–serve as a reminder to be kind. You never know what someone else, person or dog, is going through, so just be kind.
And, I think, that’s his legacy. And it fits him so well. I’ll miss him forever, but I carry him with me. So, it’ll be OK.
Thanks for your patience during this unpredictable past year. I’m so grateful for you and for everyone who shares your pets with this community. Give them all some extra hugs and scritches this weekend. Lots of love!
Thank you for this. BJ died 10 months ago and I still feel his loss. I find my self looking for him and sometimes call him to come for his dinner. i still cry. It took me 6 months to adopt another dog. Duncan hasn’t taken BJ’s place, he’s just enlarged my heart to give him a place. I still cry and say goodnight and sweet dreams to him.
Oh Maggie, I had those same irrational, grief-stricken thoughts for months after Callie got her angel wings. Sometimes I still have them. But, they’re part of the grieving process for some of us. Sit with them, acknowledge them, let them come and go; and, eventually they will come less frequently and leave more quickly.
Shadow -especially – and Ducky still look for Callie at times. When Shadow feels slighted or ignored, she seeks out Callie’s favorite nap spot and lies down in it. I know Callie must visit her at those times because she always comes back bouncy and happy and wagging that beautiful, floophy, golden tail. And Ducky acts goofy with Shadow, just like she did with Callie.
The hole that Callie once filled will always be empty, but the edges are becoming softer and blurrier. Her spirit is always close by. And I know Lucas’s spirit is always close to you as well. The presence of Callie’s spirit is what brings me peace and comfort, as it does for Shadow. And I hope that the presence of Lucas’s spirit does the same for you and yours.
Oh, this just makes my heart hurt so much for you. You absolutely captured what I felt like after losing my dogs this year. One in June, the other in July. That heart part…is hard to put into words. You try to put it inside of you, them inside of you and hold on. Try not to remember the events leading up to their death. But it’s so hard. And the blaming. I guess everyone who loves their dogs feels all of these things. But it never makes it better knowing. I never knew what to feel, anger, sadness, being grateful for the time I had with them. I just wanted to bring them back and smell them again. Touch their soft fur. Pretty much everything you talk about here. I still can’t bring myself to order their stones with their names on them for the places I buried them in my yard. Thank you for your words they are a huge help to me.
That’s a beautiful testament to the richness Lucas added to your life and as a result, to the lives of those you touch through your writing. As morbid as it sounds, I occasionally wonder how I would deal with the loss of my dogs, especially Ray, and the result is always the same: not well. Not well at all. I can only hope that the day will be far in the future for both my boys and that they can continue living their happy little lives.
I’m glad you’re writing again as I’ve missed your presence on the interwebs and hope that with each passing day, you find a bit more comfort in your memories of Lucas and a lot less pain.
Hugs.
Maggie, your words play havoc with my tear ducts! Thinking of you and sending positive thoughts.
Lucas was a lucky dog, you gave him a great home filled with love and friends, he obviously gave you more than can be put into words…but isn’t that just like a great dog/friend/family member. They slip into our lives and heart and even after they are gone, well they seem to leave a better person. Grieving is hard. It is hard and unpredictable and unexplainable. Glad that you can feel the hole left by this great dog filling in with love. Your writing is great! I enjoy your blog and check for update regularly. If you don’t post for a while I just think that you have a lot of life going on, just like the rest of us. Thanks for a great blog I really do enjoy it. One of my favorite post is watching Cooper swim in the pool!!!
Thank you for writing this. After carrying my 45 pound dog outside to pee for several weeks and trips to the vet where I kept hoping something could be done to help her, we faced reality and it was brutal. It’s been a couple months and every hike I go on with the other dogs, I comment on how much our girl would like it. You explained it beautifully.
Oh my gosh – hugs… …and tears….
Monty, Harlow, and Ramble
I couldn’t type through my tears when I first read this. All I can do is send big hugs, and reassure you that you did not fail Lucas in any way. But of course you know that rationally. I think in some way I feel guilty about many of our pet losses; and there is one story I still have not been able to tell to this day, over 12 years later. I know it might be cathartic for me to do so, but it just goes so deep. I hope writing this has helped you some, Maggie, and I hope it has unblocked you, because I’ve missed your regular posts. ?
Once again, you have captured the essence of feelings that are so difficult to live with, let alone put into words to share. Everyone who has lost a beloved dog can empathize with the grief, the unreasonable guilt and the persistent ache of longing to be whole again.
I am not a particularly ‘religious’ person, but having shared my home and my heart with 40 cats and 7 dogs over the last fifty years, about the only thing that lets me continue to care for and love another dog or cat is the absolute belief that we will be reunited with all of our animals, at the “Rainbow Bridge”, or in Heaven, or wherever you believe your soul goes when you die.
I know that this must be true because God would NOT have given animals such a short life-span to share with us, and given us so many more years to grieve their loss, unless he planned for us to care for and love as many animals as we could in in our lifetimes, secure in the knowledge that we will spend all of eternity whole, well and together with those we’ve lost. That life could be otherwise is too cruel to contemplate.
If all our struggles, and losses and love exist for just a moment in time and then vanish, why would anyone bother to do anything? To love anyone? Who would willingly bother to have their hearts broken again and again by loving those whose lives are but a fraction of our own unless we felt the certainty that the love we give and the love we share continues beyond the world we live in?
I have come to accept the belief that everything happens for a reason, that there is a plan to the universe, and the loss of every one of my beloved dogs and cats has been just the temporary closing of one door so that another may open.
As difficult as it has been to accept the losses, I have seen this cycle repeated over my lifetime..
Maggie, Lucas had the very best life he could have had with you . He had a family who loved him completely and took such good care of him. You could not have done anything any differently and gotten a different result. Lucas knew he was loved and he loved you every minute of his life.
When your heart has healed enough, another door will open for you..
Until that happens, know that friends and strangers who came to know Lucas through your writing, grieve with you and hold you, and Lucas, in their prayers.
Sending you love and light.
Thank you for sharing. RIP Lucas
Beautifully written. I can’t believe it’s been a year already. I found the one year anniversary when we lost Abby very hard. Of course, I knew it was coming, but it hit me hard. I gave up writing for 8 months or so after we lost her. It was just too hard. (Especially since I try to write funny, happy, hopeful stories and I was feeling none of those things.) It’s been 4+ years now and I still miss her like crazy. Was just talking to Rita again a little while ago about her “angel sister” in fact. They do leave such huge holes, especially when they have such big personalities, like Lucas and Abby.
Love your message though… remember what others are going through and be kind. We all need to be reminded of that now and then!
Thank you for sharing the special moments I know exactly what you’re going to I want to see the two years ago may God bless you and yours an all dogs
You put into words exactly how I feel after losing my precious baby girl in January. She was only 11 1/2 years old. It was not a long illness but a sudden tragic accident that no one could have predicted. She was the light of my life. I had raised her from a puppy. She ran through life and everything with such joyful exuberance, you couldn’t help but smile or laugh. Her vet frequently commented about how she would look at me with such devotion. Unfortunately I do not have a husband who is as wonderful as yours, I endure this loss alone. Right now our other dog is acting more and more depressed and lonely but I can’t get another dog. So I take him on adventures like you do with Emmett but it is just a short lived reprieve.
Lucas is now King of Kings in K-9 Heaven. All creatures have souls. R.I.P Sir Lucas. Job well done!
RIP Lucas. I’ve lost two dogs in my life and it still hurts everyday. Every dog is unique and can not be replaced by another one.
You captured the sense of loss so brutally and yet so beautifully. I felt many of the same emotions when I lost Sally Roberta (our “Sally GIrl”) over a decade ago. I still miss her today, but the memories are wonderful. Thanks for sharing, and if you’d like, please visit and post a tribute to Lucas, we would be honored to have him on our Rainbow Bridge page.
Thank you for sharing this, Maggie. Your words soften the edges of sadness, too.
Thank you. Mango loves Lucas, too. At the rainbow bridge.
I am so sorry I missed this post Maggie. I can’t believe it has been a year already. It seems like you lost him just a few months ago. I hope he is playing and running around in heaven now. It still makes me tear up thinking about all you did to save him. It hurts when they leave us.
The hole never really goes away, it just gets hidden a little. There really is no love like the unconditional love of a beloved pet. They really are our best friends
Missing Lucas and you, Maggie.
Oh, my goodness. You have no idea how perfectly-timed this comment was… Thank you so very much. This means the world to me.
There are no such things as coincidences. Thank you.