Getting Millie - Part I
Not every dog is that special one who connects to your soul like my big sweet Newfoundland, Lucille, did. She was the gentle creature who’d taken me through the death of my sister, family problems, surgeries, the isolation of Covid. For me, her departure was one of the great tragedies of my life. And so, as soon as she was gone, I set out to find another dog. As it turned out, I should have waited.
THIS IS PART 1 of a SIX-PART STORY
Nicole with one of her father’s German Shepherds
My whole life, I’ve always had dogs. In fact, my father, a kind and worldly man who had escaped Hitler Germany and was in the oil business, bred German Shepherds and was a dog show judge, flying all over the country to stand in the middle of a ring and award ribbons and trophies to the canine he deemed had the best (and second and third best) conformation, movement and disposition.
Not every dog, however, is that special one that connects to your soul.
I’ve had dogs I’ve loved – dachshunds, golden retrievers, one or two mutts – but none so much as my big sweet Newfoundland, Lucille, whom I had to put down over the summer because she had lymphoma. (She was also twelve, which is old for such a large dog.) I had owned her since she was a year, a sweet-faced girl whose coat had not yet fully come in and whose legs seemed long for her body because she’d been spayed too early. The only thing I knew about her was she’d been picked up in Houston – perhaps dumped in the street? – and sent to a Newfie shelter. A friend had found her for me after my previous dog died. “Is this what you’d like?” she said, holding up her phone to show me a pic of a large black dog with droopy lips. “Yes,” I said, nodding vigorously.
A week later Lucille, who came with that name, was mine.
But now, eleven years later, Lucille was gone. She was the gentle creature who’d taken me through the death of my sister, through difficult and taxing family problems, two shoulder replacement surgeries, an estrangement from a close relative and, finally, the isolation of COVID. When I was down-hearted or upset, I’d get down on the floor with Lucille and we’d stare into one another’s eyes and she’d purr like a cat, only deeper, her whole body thrumming with the sound. She’d drape one giant paw over me and we’d lie there together, breathing back and forth into one another’s nostrils. For me, her departure was one of the great tragedies of my life.
And so, as soon as she was gone, I set out to find another dog. As it turned out, I should have waited.
Lucille