Lucy

Eliza King

When I was thirteen years old, my family brought our second dog home to live with us. She is a Miniature Schnauzer and her name is Lucy. She was born and raised in Morristown, Tennessee by a woman named Mrs. Newport. Her previous cage was located outdoors and because of the various weather conditions she was subjected to, she had very poor health. Her black ears were severely infected, cracked and swollen. Her only source of nutrition was the one piece of white bread she received daily. In addition to taking care of herself, she also had a new puppy to watch over.

Today, Lucy’s hair is wavy and short with a blend of gray and black intertwining together to make a mixture looking like salt and pepper. She has small, cropped triangular ears, dark black eyes and a round black wet nose. A beard that is stained brown from her food surrounds her unhealthy yellowed teeth and pale pink spotted tongue. She wears a hot pink invisible fence collar with black clasp around her neck. Soft, gray curls dangle over her front and hind paws and sway back and forth delicately when she trots. Her long, sleek nails are painted with a rosy pink nailpolish to coordinate with her pink collar.

Lucy is not the typical dog that likes to play with squeaky dog toys. She enjoys chewing on sticks, biting at her paws, grooming her legs, and barking and running at the mail lady. In the afternoon she sits on the light brown two-seater swing that hangs on our white wrap around porch. At night, we sit in the floor and I brush her hair. This is her normal bedtime routine.

Lucy sleeps with me each night on the end of my white water bed. At the same time every night, she willingly secludes herself from the family and prances upstairs to sleep alone, until I get there. Her back aligns the window tracing the side of the bed and her stomach lies flat on the heated water. In the morning when I leave for school, Lucy sleeps in the bathroom downstairs on a navy blue pillow and waits for someone to come home, let her outside and feed her.

Lucy’s favorite treats are salty potato chips, Ole Roy dinner rounds and dog bones.

Before she can eat a bone she does one of her famous tricks where she stands on her hind feet and jumps around in circles on the cold kitchen floor as she anxiously awaits us to tell her she can sit down. My older brother Benjamin taught her that trick. The crackling sound of opening food wrappers excite her to the point of barking, dancing and wagging her tail back and forth rapidly.

Noises terrify Lucy. Thunderstorms, the vacuum cleaner, fireworks and gunshots send her running frantically around the house trembling. I have spent many sleepless nights awake with Lucy in my room during a storm, petting her tiny, gray head and trying to get her to fall asleep and ignore the booming, cracking rolls of thunder that terrorize her every thought. Anytime the vacuum is pulled from the laundry room closet, Lucy runs up the stairs to hide in my dad's bedroom.

It is said that a dog is only a man's best friend, but I disagree. Lucy is the best companion to come home to every day and wake up to in the morning. When I have had a rough day at school, she is always willing to lie down by my side on the couch and comfort me. She really is a cuddly, loving family dog.