The day we are putting Lucy down has come; the air in the house is thick with unspoken words and a grief that none of us can articulate. Lucy, or Lulu as we call her, has been a part of our family for ten years. She is a German short-haired pointer, full of energy and love. She’d run alongside me during my childhood, a constant best friend in both play and silence. Over time, the lively dog we once knew has begun to slow down. Her strong legs can no longer carry her for long walks, and her vibrant bark has turned into shallow, labored breaths. Congestive heart failure has taken its toll, and it is clear that she is suffering.
2013, Lucy and I’s first picture together
This morning, the house feels unusually still. The sun streams in through the kitchen window, but there is a heaviness in the air. Lucy is lying on her favorite blanket, not moving much, her body too tired to do anything but rest. I sit with her, running my fingers gently through her fur, trying to absorb every sensation. I am not ready. I cannot bear the thought of life without her. The idea of losing her, of saying goodbye to a dog who has been there through the best and worst of my childhood, was unbearable.
Brogen, our other dog, is confused, quietly laying down next to each of us as we hug Lulu goodbye. I feel horrible that I cannot tell him this is the last time he will see his sister and best friend.
The drive to the vet feels like a blur. My parents are in the front, quietly talking, though their voices do not reach me. I sit in the back, Lucy’s head resting in my lap. Her breathing is slow and shallow. I cannot bring myself to say anything, not because I do not want to, but because there are no words that can capture the sorrow that floods me. I am picturing Brogen waiting by the door, not understanding that this time, Lucy wouldn’t be coming home.
At the vet’s office, everything feels foreign. The sterile white walls and the smell of antiseptic clash with the warmth and comfort of home. We all gather around Lucy as she lay on the floor, her body trembling, her eyes looking up at us with a trust that breaks my heart. My hand rests gently on her head, as my tears drip on her fur. The vet administers the sedative, and for a moment, it seems like Lucy is simply falling asleep. As her body relaxes and her breathing slows, I began processing that my constant companion, the dog who had seen me through all my formative years, would no longer be with me.
The final moments feel surreal, almost like I am trapped in a dream, unable to wake up. Lucy’s eyes close, and the room suddenly feels emptier. The vet confirms it is over, and as her heart stops beating, I feel a part of myself slip away with her.
We leave the vet’s office in silence. The drive home is just as quiet as the drive there, but now, instead of anticipation, the silence is filled with grief. The house we return to feels empty. Brogen is still looking for Lucy in her usual spots. For days, the silence in our home is deafening. My parents retreat into their grief, each of us trying to make sense of the emptiness that settles in. We had lost more than a dog; we had lost a part of our family.
A year passed before we brought Bennett into our lives. Bennett is a black lab, full of love and energy, a stark contrast to the quiet grief that had filled our home. But even as we welcomed Bennett, we all knew he could never replace Lucy. He didn’t fill the hole she had left, but he brought light back into the house. Brogen slowly warmed to Bennett, teaching him the way of things, but it was clear his heart still carried the memory of Lucy. He followed Bennett around, showing him the ropes, just as Lucy had shown him years before.
2023, The last picture I took of Lucy
Looking back, I see how deeply Lucy’s death affected our family. In the immediate aftermath, I could not process the weight of the loss, but over time, as Bennett became a part of our lives, I saw how we began to reshape ourselves around the grief. In Reading Autobiography Now, by Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson, the authors describe how memory and autobiography evolve over time, and I now see how Lucy’s death changed my understanding of grief. In the context of memory, the authors write that memory is “so immaterial, personal, and elusive” and is “implicated in . . . the materiality of our very bodies” (Smith and Watson 39). The memory of that day remains vivid in the feelings, smells, and sounds I had experienced, yet I feel as though I evolved from it. The way we process loss individually and collectively continues to shift, and it wasn’t until later that I understood the depth of her impact on us all.
In Solito, Javier Zamora explores loss, memory, and identity, which resonates with my family and I’s grief. Just as Zamora reflects on how past traumas shape the present, the loss of Lucy marked a defining moment for us, altering the fabric of our family. That grief, raw and immediate, was something we all processed in our own ways, just as Zamora navigates the complexity of memory and trauma in his own life.
Lucy’s death marked the end of an era for me, but it also opened the door to new love. Through Brogen’s quiet mourning and Bennett’s unconditional affection, I learned that grief is not something to escape, but something to live with. In time, the house that had once felt so empty began to feel full again, not with the same energy that Lucy had brought, but with a different kind of love. That day of loss shaped my understanding of family, love, and how we carry the memory of those we’ve lost with us, even as life moves forward.
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