Lily

On an otherwise pleasant day in February of this year, Lucy and I took our dog Lily to the veterinarian, the last of a sequence of visits to tend to an infected ovarian cyst causing her no small distress. With no viable options other than an extreme and risky surgical procedure it was time to help her cross over to whatever form of canine afterlife there might be, hopefully with Polly. Lily was Polly’s dog, a Christmas present when she was midway through middle school. It became customary for Polly to refer to her as Dobby, as she often struck a facial pose that reminded her – and all the fam – of Harry Potter’s brave house elf. Lily not only had the look of Dobby at times, but she also loved Polly and all of us in some of the ways that Dobby loved Harry: loyally, sometimes timidly and sometimes enthusiastically, and in the early years almost always with an undercurrent of anxiety, no doubt due to the cruelty with which the world greeted her shortly after her birth.

We learned about Lily from a work colleague of mine who’d rescued one of her doggy siblings, and so it was in early December of 2011 that I drove up to the mountains to meet her at the foster recovery farm where she was being well taken care of. She and I bonded well at that first meeting  and soon enough we were down the road, her nestled in some blankets in the front passenger seat. Soon enough she would be nestled with me in the driver’s seat as we made our way back to Charlotte, with just a chance of plan as to how we were going to keep the puppy in the house without Polly knowing about it. The legendary playroom over our detached garage was central to the mission, yet I don’t think that any of the family thought we’d be able to keep her hidden until Christmas morning. 

That escapade is a story for another post, perhaps, but we managed to pull it off, bringing that mixed miniature black lab puppy upstairs to the bedroom of a still slumbering Polly. Polly’s utter disbelief about the little creature that bounced on her bed gave way to unabashed joy, as I am sure that Polly was feeling strongly that her incessant whispering chant of “puppy, puppy, puppy” in the months leading up to Christmas worked. Yes, my darling daughter, you did cast spells; some would say that you still do. 

Lily, Polly’s name of choice, became as much a family dog as hers alone and as the late high school and early college years emerged, Lily stayed at home. She made the move with us to Wilmington in late 2017 and a few way-too-short months later endured the screaming shell-shock of Polly’s death as we all did. In all the mayhem that ensued those first days of May 2018, some friends kindly took Lily in that next day as we gathered a few pieces of clothing and fewer pieces of ourselves for the trip back to Charlotte, where we’d try to figure out how to celebrate Polly and begin to learn what  true suffering would entail. Calling to check on Lily once we were back home, our friend Elizabeth let us know that she was okay, save for spending the first night in their large backyard, baying at the just waning full moon of that early May evening, offering her own jagged cries for some sense of understanding, just as we were each doing ourselves.

Back at the veterinarian’s office, with all the past 6 years of living with Lily and without Polly tumbling through my heart, one aspect of my life became clear to me in the moments in the private room where I help Lily for the last time – the weighty realization of all that Lily had done for me. Our 3-4 daily walks around the Amberleigh Shores complex that was our Wilmington home were routine affairs, on the surface at least, for Lily to do her business and hopefully get a treat from one of the guys in the golf carts, tending to whatever issues faced whichever renters that day. The walks helped me keep myself in somewhat decent shape physically and mentally and to give a credible answer to those kind souls that sincerely asked how I was holding up. Varying degrees “of doing reasonably alright” became the stock response and just getting to that state of being was aided immensely by that sweet girl dog. 

What I figured out in those last moments with her, but never took the time to really express to myself, was that each of those walks with Lily was another 1500 steps or so of recovery from the trauma, journeying together into our mutual sorrow and hope. My hands moving across her body, in the familiar pattern of rubbing her head and stroking her fur while she was being sent to permanent sleep, a strong surge of gratitude for all that she had done for me swelled inside me, pouring out of my eyes. As much as any living creature could, she had carried me through the first days of grieving, helping me build a bridge from the pain of sudden loss to the response of suffering in as meaningful manner as I could. The debt that I owe her is beyond measure and the love we shared beyond expression. Thank you, Lily. Thank you, my friend. Thank you.