Cummings and Goings

When I started Cummings & Goings, I was determined to document the ups and downs of our Korean adventure—Lucy’s goodbye is a post I never wanted to write, but our girl deserves to be documented, too.

I have rewritten this in my head about a thousand times, and I still don’t know how to start.

Maybe because I never imagined I would be writing it this soon.

On Saturday morning, we lost our sweet Lucy.

If you’ve been following along with Cummings & Goings, you know Lucy has been part of this story from the very beginning. Long before Korea. Long before this blog. Long before the boys. Before so many of the chapters that now make up our life.

Lucy was there.

For fourteen years, she was my constant.

And I mean that literally.

She followed me everywhere. She was my shadow, my little sidekick, my comfort, my alarm clock, my travel companion, and, depending on the day, probably my favorite child.

She was also a little bit ridiculous. But I am too.

She had a personality all her own, and that hair. That absolutely ridiculous Lucy mohawk hair. She was named after one of my favorite shows, I Love Lucy, and somehow she managed to live up to her name perfectly.

Quirky. Funny. Stubborn. Loving. Completely herself.

And somehow, completely mine.

When we first rescued Lucy, she was terrified of us.

She was afraid of human touch. She didn’t want anyone to pet her. And she was absolutely terrified of getting in the car.

I remember thinking that it was going to take a lot of time and a lot of patience for her to understand that she was safe now.

Luckily, she had Charlie.

Our other dog, Charlie, loved us completely. He wanted to be touched, loved, petted, cuddled—all of it. And Lucy watched him.

Over time, she started to realize that maybe we weren’t so scary after all.

Eventually, she let us pet her.

And then she learned to love the car.

In fact, she eventually figured out that if I had my car keys in my hand, there was a pretty good chance we were going somewhere fun.

More specifically, Starbucks.

Lucy had a daily Pup Cup routine.

The Starbucks near us eventually knew her. They’d see her hanging out the window, her little mohawk blowing in the wind, and they’d start making her Pup Cup before we even got to the window.

They knew how to spell her name.

They never quite figured out how to spell mine correctly.

Honestly, that feels very on brand for our relationship.

Somewhere along the way, that terrified little rescue dog became a dog who trusted us completely.

She learned that hands could be gentle.

That cars could take her somewhere good.

That people could be trusted.

And that she was safe.

We rescued Lucy, and like so many people are told when they rescue a dog, I always thought of it as us saving her.

She had been abused before she came to us. We gave her a safe home. We loved her. We spoiled her. We gave her fourteen years of knowing she was safe.

But looking back now, I think that story was only half true.

Lucy saved me, too.

She was with me through some of the hardest seasons of my life. She was there for the things I don’t talk about, the things I cried about, the things I worried about, and the things I eventually laughed about.

She was there for the good stuff, too.

The growing family. The boys. The moves. The holidays. The lazy days. The completely ordinary days that I didn’t realize at the time would someday become the memories I would give anything to have back.

She was just always there.

And then we moved to Korea.

I knew moving halfway around the world would be hard. I knew I would miss my family, my friends, our house, familiar stores, familiar roads, familiar everything.

What I didn’t fully understand was how much you realize what your anchors are when everything around you changes.

Lucy was one of mine.

In a country where almost everything was new, she was familiar.

She was home.

And over these last few weeks, while she was sick and staying at the vet, that became even more obvious.

My days started revolving around updates from the vet. Visiting her. Wondering how she was doing. Hoping for good news. Praying she would get strong enough to come home.

Friday, we visited her and actually thought we had turned a corner. We got to see her and pet her. She tucked her nose in my hands. She loved when we held her face.

For the first time in what felt like forever, we left feeling hopeful.

We thought she might come home today.

Instead, we got the call that she was gone.

There really aren’t words for that kind of phone call.

Especially when you’re thousands of miles from home.

Especially when you’re trying to navigate grief in a foreign country.

Especially when the dog you’re saying goodbye to has been beside you for fourteen years.

We weren’t with Lucy when she passed, and that is one of the hardest parts for me to accept.

But the vet brought a Bible, said a prayer over her, and gave her a white flower.

I will forever be grateful for that kindness.

Someone was there with our girl.

Someone cared for her.

Someone made sure she wasn’t alone.

And for that, I will always be thankful.

And then there were the unexpected gifts of kindness along the way. Mason is a friend of Beckett’s from his class, and over the last two weeks, we’ve gotten to know his family as well. They made us the most beautiful drawing of Lucy, and I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be able to put into words what it means to me. It perfectly captures our sweet girl and is something I will treasure forever. It is now sitting on our shelf beside her collar and her ashes, and every time I look at it, I’ll think of how kind they were to our family during one of the hardest times in our lives. It is truly one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received, and something I will treasure for the rest of my life. Sometimes people come into your life for only a short time and leave a much bigger mark than they could ever realize. Mason’s family has certainly done that for ours.

There is so much more I want to say about Lucy.

I could probably write an entire book about her.

I could tell you about her quirks and her favorite things. I could tell you about the way she followed me around the house or the ridiculous things she did that made us laugh. I could tell you about how much she loved us and how completely she became part of our family.

But maybe the most important thing to say is simply this:

She was loved.

So very, very loved.

Fourteen years still doesn’t feel like enough.

Someone once said that a dog’s biggest flaw is that they don’t live long enough.

I have thought about that a lot today.

Because it is true.

No matter how many years we get, it will never feel like enough when the years are over.

Lucy, I hope somehow you knew what you meant to me.

I hope you knew that you weren’t just the dog we rescued.

You were the dog who stayed.

You stayed through every version of me.

And somewhere along the way, you healed parts of me you never even knew were broken.

So I guess this is where Cummings & Goings says goodbye to one of its most important characters.

The little rescue dog with the big personality.

The dog who crossed an ocean with us.

The dog who made a new country feel a little more like home.

My constant.

My girl.

My Lucy.

Thank you for fourteen years.

Thank you for every ordinary day that I didn’t know was precious at the time.

Thank you for every laugh, every cuddle, every time you followed me from one room to another for absolutely no reason. Including the bathroom.

Thank you for being there.

And thank you for reminding me that sometimes the ones we think we’re saving are the ones who save us right back.

We will miss you more than words can say.

And we will carry you with us wherever this crazy Cummings & Goings life takes us next.

Until we see you again, sweet girl.

Love you always.