Why I call her Lucy-Fur

WARNING: This post contains certain information that might offend some people's sensibilities. Part of it even offends my own. Proceed at your own risk.

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Kim went out of town six days ago, and it's been my pleasure (most of the time) since then to have Winston and Lucy as houseguests.


Winston has been exceptionally well-behaved, as if he instinctively understands the importance of pleasing the provider of his food, water and treats. With the exception of a few rousing games of plastic-hamburger-keep-away and occasional lifts into and out of the high bed, he hasn't made any extra demands. Lucy, on the other hand, has seemed to have only one thought on her mind since her mom dropped her off:

"Paaaaar-teeee!"


Lucy is the delicately built girly dog who likes to snuggle. She lets us hold her like a baby and stretches her pretty neck to get close enough to bestow dainty dog kisses on our cheeks. Let's just say that after this visit I won't be so eager to have any more of those.

Here are some of the things I've taken away from Lucy this week:

1) One half-eaten dead wasp;
2) One half-eaten dead beetle;
3) One whole chicken wing stolen from my plate;
4) Two cotton balls;
5) One stuffed animal whose fabric tail she was tearing into pieces, chewing up and swallowing;
6) Two knee-high stockings, worn ones that smelled like feet;
7) One big wad of paper towels I'd put on the floor to blot up a puddle of pee (hers); and, last night at the foot of my bed,
8) One well-chewed-but-not-quite-dead tiny pink gecko.

To complete the portrait, here's a photo of Lucy slinking up to play Inspector General while Kadi goes about personal dog business in the backyard:


The reason I'm telling you all this is to demonstrate that Lucy is not the sweet baby doll we thought she'd grow up to be. Though she's capable of turning on the charm, she's all dog.

So here's the clincher, the for-certain-too-much-information part of this post to explain how Lucy hurt my feelings: She had settled down on the sofa beside me, the entire length of her body snuggled up against my hip and thigh. She was sleeping soundly, and I didn't want to move and wake her, but I began to feel some rumblings in my abdomen.

After a moment I shifted position ever so slightly, and when I did, a tiny amount of gas escaped, accompanied by what I considered an unfortunate but rather feminine little toot. Lucy, the willing eater of vile creatures and close-up admirer of fresh poop, raised her head, sniffed the air, whipped around to look at me with an expression of disbelief, then leaped down and ran across the room and jumped up on the other sofa. How dare she?

Strangers who meet her think she's the prettiest, sweetest little thing. Humph! They've never seen the devil-dog side of her.