I probably shouldn’t jest about a term that ends in “holic”, so I hope I don’t offend anyone.
If you’re taken aback, please pardon me. I’m under Lucy’s spell.
Here’s item #1 to support my claim, the video “Dy & Lucy”:
I actually had the audacity (and/or foolishness) of posting that video on my Facebook page. You know you’re in puppy love when you don’t care too much that you’re posting a video clip in which you rolled out of bed, you haven’t brushed your hair, you didn’t put on a stitch of makeup, and hmmm, when was that last shower? Plus you look a little bit…crazed. (As much as I loathe the word “crazy”, I do look a bit wacked out in my glazed eyes.)
But it’s all good, you see?
Because it’s all about Lucy!
At the ripe age of forty-four, I forgot all about the experience of puppy bliss. (I also forgot about the house training, but nothing’s perfect!) The last time I cared for a puppy was twenty-four years ago, in which Tara (Lucy’s great aunt) came into my life.
Tara’s mother, a Sheltie/wolf mix, had to have a Cesarian section, and I witnessed my puppy being born. Tara almost didn’t make it. I viewed her birth through a window at the animal hospital, and the veterinarian repeatedly lifted Tara up and down to clear out her lungs. I remember feeling such a rush of joy when I was told she would live. Tara was a fabulous dog in all sorts of ways, and when she died in my arms a few years ago I already struggled with bipolar depression. When she left me, I sank even deeper in despair.
The fact that Tara lives on through our Lucy moves me. It feels right. We put off having a dog for years due to the severity of my mental illness. Now that I’ve been stable for a while, it’s an opportune time to embark on this journey.
It’s nice to focus on such a loving, trusting and joyful small creature.
Being in the garden today with Lucy is the antithesis to being stuck in a mental hospital with nothing except strangers, pills, and misery. I can’t help but make the comparison between those two experiences – the thought arrives without warning. I imagine my feeling is related to post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD); I’m not sure if those intrusive thoughts will ever disappear.
What matters more than the trauma of hospitalization is that I made it through those suicidal periods. While I wasn’t magically healed after my last hospital discharge, over time I got much better. I’m back to trusting my own brain again. I’m grateful that as I type this last paragraph, I spot little Lucy edging up to me with the beauty of her affection, and I can scoop her up and savor her warmth with every fiber of my being.