I’m just going to say it. Lucy is our trouble child. I actually have dreams of her being possessed by the devil, sitting on our bed in an array of underwear and socks, panting with a crazed look on her face and teeth drawn {scary, right?}. If it’s not her broken tail, bad hips or sensitive stomach, it’s her neurotic tendencies {like eating poop, dirt or sand, dragging her butt on the neighbor’s sidewalk, scratching at walls and puking on carpet}. I’ve seen this little cloud of love eat a box of chocolate truffles with no side effects. I’ve seen her survive a minor pit-bull attack {at the expense of my ribs mind you}. She looks depressed half the time and mildly content the other half. Her growl mixed with a whimper and butt scooch means she’s being playful. But when she growls and glares at you with red eyes, just leave her alone. She hides bones in pillows and will squeak a toy until its death.
If she’s not snoozing, she’s wiping her eyes on your leg or growling at you for food or cuddles. Diets don’t work on her, neither does any type of dog training {my fault}. She is queen bee and refuses to mingle with other dogs since she must be the alpha in all relationships. There are only a few dogs she can stand to be around {Rudy is one of them}. It must be a lhasa-apso thing. Wasn’t I smart to ask for one.
Every week there is something new wrong with this dog, I tell you. This week, she got bit by a spider {or got into some poison oak, who knows} and started scratching her head compulsively. So much that she scratched open her scalp little by little, while we were at work. It bled and got infected overnight. The solution? A cone, a good clean-up of the infected area and oral antibiotics. She hasn’t been very fun this week and our bank account took a hit, yet again.
But somehow, all of this keeps us pretty entertained. It’s the easiest thing to laugh about {or cry about, ha}. She keeps us on our toes and there’s just something about this little girl we could never do without. She is still so loveable, even when she’s in a deep depression, staring at walls and hiding in small spaces. All I have to think about is how excited she gets to see us when we get home. When she rolls on her back for a belly rub, my heart melts. I don’t care how much money I’ve dropped on her in the last 6 years {enough for 5 Alaskan cruises I’m sure} or damage she’s done to places we’ve rented. She is my Lucy girl, my Lu Lu bug, my polar bear, my white cloud, my Lucy Goose, my first born.
To me, Lucy is our Marley {but a smaller version with more problems}. Tacoma looks more like Marley but he’s sort of perfect so I can’t compare.
