To my Light Girl

My dearest darling Lusa,

This morning as I held you, your heart stopped beating. The vet gave you a sedative so you'd be really relaxed and I held you, cried and kissed your sweet soft fur, and she returned with the euthanasia injection that ended your life as we know it. 

I know you came to me from Light. I can't remember if I had your name picked out before I found you but I knew I wanted a very smart dog, one that was medium sized, one who would teach me how to find "play" in my life. I had struggled with feeling I didn't play enough in life and felt I wanted a dog who would remind me to play. I gave you a name I made up, Lusa -- Light Girl -- and later found out the root of "lus" actually comes from "play" in Latin. 

We had many long days of play in our years together. From the early days at Upper Butte Creek with Chris Trowbridge when I could still hold you in one hand and you'd fall asleep on my belly rafter tiring out learning how to swim... to the days spent with Don's dog Gus on the river dock diving or canoeing... and at the beach in Baja, endless sand play with our friend-and-dog tribe... to our time in Chico on bike rides in your own special Burley trailer, because once you were about 8 years old you could run for about a mile before you'd get wiped out and "load up" in the trailer I pulled with my bike… to the way you greeted me when I returned from India after being gone a month and I whistled your special whistle and you came running and wiggling around the corner like a firecracker on a ranch… to the days we spent living in San Diego and frolicking on the beach in such pleasant sunshine… to our last road trip together, the one we took before Helena came because I knew we'd want one last road trip together, just me and you, before the baby came.  

Gosh, I am so thankful that when I was with an ex and he didn't didn't like you and I tried to give you herbal doggie downers to calm *you* down, I eventually realized you weren't the problem; my relationship with him was. Thank *god* I didn't let you go back then. We had far too many wonderful times to share after that. You weren't a problem. You just wanted to play, to dance in the sand, to answer my commands. You were giving me clear signals I'd hear if I listened. 

I was your job. 

Life started shifting a lot in 2011 when Hjalmar came into our world. He had Rosco and I had you and we were both deeply devoted to our dogs. With Rosco, our pack felt complete. You tried to keep me for yourself in some ways, snarling at Rosco when he'd come near me for affection, trying to cut him out of my path, letting him know you were Alpha dog. And you were. But then a couple weeks ago I noticed that dynamic start to shift. I sensed he wasn't playing the same role with you and I wondered about it… Were you feeling OK? Were you depressed?

Then last week one day I looked at you and you looked skinny. Not just depression skinny… because that, perhaps, could pass now that Helena was growing less delicate and fussy on walks… but sick skinny. So I took you to the vet and sure enough, you had liver and spleen cancer. 

Had I felt you still had years to live, I might have considered surgery. But Lulu Bird, as we both know, we had been having conversations about your life, and how long you would stay. There was such a dramatic shift when Mama had a baby, it was like all of a sudden you weren't my #1 baby girl anymore, after almost 14 years. This hurt for both of us. And the new baby clung to my chest all day long. You felt the huge transition. It would never be the same for us. I would never be able to guarantee to take you out every morning for leash-free time in Lower Park to heel me, sniff and swim. I would not be able to take you with me on errands and bike rides as much as before, on days when often my top priority was to get you out to play... was your well being. Now Mama had a human baby and she became my top responsibility. 

You could feel the beauty, and that we wanted her in our lives. So you didn't protest or ever express dismay at the baby, but you definitely knew life was different now. It wasn't as fun as before, and one day when Mama was tired I even got upset with you and shoved you back in the cottage when you tried to get out. I feel horrible about that Lusa. I'm sorry. You must have felt so abandoned and, in that moment, unloved. 

Yet overall, my girl, you lived an extraordinary life with me. I weaved my world around you, taking you everywhere I could, prioritizing your well being often more than I prioritized my own, working from home with you at my feet, arranging for friends to take you out on hikes and walks when we were in Sweden, feeding you really good food. 

But the most beautiful thing about us is that I knew you were perfect. Queensland Heelers are a special working breed. You are bred to herd cattle. You're one of the smartest dog breeds and that's mostly why I got you, why I chose *you* out of all the dog breeds in the world… I wanted a dog I could deeply connect with, so intelligent you wanted to constantly learn from me, have me train you, communicate with me often and well. You were all of this. Highly trainable, pretty well trained, and only pesky when you wanted someone's attention and your DNA told you to nip their ankles to get it. 

Someone once suggested I train that out of you. That's like trying to train a chicken not to lay eggs. I loved you 100% and I liked you 100%. The people who don't like Heelers or didn't like you were like water off my back. I couldn't care less... What. So. Ever. You were perfect exactly as you were. 

Somewhere in my spiritual awareness I know we are not our bodies; we are Love. We are thought, walking around in physical form appearing to have an experience. But right now my baby Pesa, my Louie Bird, I feel so sad that your body is no longer with me. I can only begin to fathom being as loving to others as you were to me, as present to serve, as open to joy, as constant… here for me… here for me… here for me. I liked my life with you in it. I don't want to go to the park without you. 

Today your heart stopped beating as I held you in my arms. Baby girl, our years have been my favorite years. Our love has been my favorite love. And you will always be my perfect, favorite Lusa love. 

Thank you forever~

Mama