"You want Number 3?" the breeder asked incredulously, as we stood over the litter of animated, rolly-polly golden retriever puppies. "She is a
pistol!" Number 3 trotted over with her tail wagging high, three nail polish marks on her rump. My mom picked her up one more time and set the wriggling ball of fluff with dewy chocolate eyes in the yard, where Number 3 promptly found a stick three times her size and trotted proudly towards a hill where she could chew her prize in private.
"Yes!" we squealed. "We're sure." Dad signed the papers, and we spent the weeks leading to Pistol's ready-date deciding on names. Her fancy pedigree puppy name just wasn't going to work.
Two weeks later, Countrylane Cornucopia (I kid you not...she was born on Thanksgiving Day) became Lacey Delilah, and we drove home with a vivacious ball of joy, ears freshly tattooed with her name and ID number to prevent theft, green ink residue staining her silky little ears. Ever since, Lacey has been a ray of sunshine that I think I can safely say is one of the best companions to have ever walked the planet. I realize I may be slightly biased, but I have never known an entire neighborhood to be in tears over the loss of a dog. This unfortunately happened in our lives on Wednesday, July 2nd, when Lacey died at 14 years old.
Lacey lived up to her Pistol namesake, whether she was playfully harrassing the cat, or chewing up red pens and dying our carpet, or bolting for murky black swamps for a swim, or begging shamelessly for our dinner. But every ounce of her boundless energy was worth it. Lacey was the kind of dog that every person should aspire to be. She always had a smile and was everybody's friend. She wagged her tail so enthusiastically I thought it would break, even if she was tired or sick.
Kids who grew up in intense fear of dogs were found using Lacey as a pillow in the front yard on a warm summer day. Lonely neighbors found their days a little brighter when Lacey made a daily ritual out of running to greet them as they checked their mail. Lacey would bound up to greet babies in particular--Lacey loved babies. But when they cried in alarm over the big furry cream ball bounding towards them, Lacey softened with concern and learned to approach gently, and lick their hands, not their faces. Instead of crying, they laughed with delight.
Lacey was the kind of dog to play with a gopher, then drop it apologetically when it squealed with fear. She was the kind of dog to whimper and cry when we brought out a fly swatter, prancing around and wagging her tail in an effort to change our mind and spare the fly's life. She was the neighborhood catalyst--kids who refused to be seen with each other suddenly became friends, because no one could resist afternoons in the park with Lacey. Even cats loved Lacey. (They wouldn't often admit it, but I caught my cats inching closer to her on more than one occasion...)
Lacey would cry when we cried, and set a loving paw on our arm when things were bad. If someone fought, she would bark and whimper and sometimes move in between. She couldn't stand to see anyone unhappy or distraught, and would do everything in her power to make them feel better.
Even her death brought people together. A pair of feuding best friends in the neighborhood were reunited by their distress over the loss of Lacey, and they attribute their reconciliation to her.
Everyone should be like pretty, sweet Lacey. It's surreal not having her around anymore, but if dogs do go to Heaven--and I choose to believe that they do-- I have absolutely no doubt that Lacey is their #1 angel. If any dog had a pure soul, it was her.
Plus, she could "praise the Lord" on command... just one of her many fabulous tricks :)
R.I.P. Lacey. We will never forget you!!!
*5 kisses on the snout*
Love,
Everyone,
but especially Dad, Mom, me, and your chew toy Bonni
*Lacey* November 23, 1994 ~ July 2nd, 2008
