How I Feel About Our Dog Lucy: the (Mostly) Uncensored Version

We should have named her Lucifer. Or Houdini. That would have been more accurate. Or maybe Houdini Lucifini? Either way, “Lucy” feels like a bit of an underestimate.

She’s actually not evil. Smart? Somewhat. Strong? She’s like the canine version of the Hulk. Calm and sweet? Very. Insecure and anxious? You have no idea. Could I get, like, two Prozac? Actually, make that ten.

I never wanted a dog. I’m not really an animal lover. I like the idea of animals, but I’m not enthused about the reality of owning them. I grew up watching Animal Planet at my grandma’s house and reading touching stories of animal heroism, but they didn’t make me cry. I don’t really bond with animals. It’s just not me. I remember watching the gut-wrenching scene from Black Beauty where Ginger’s tarp-covered corpse is being taken away on a trailer. My older sister was sitting next to me, crying—and me? I was trying to make myself cry, to feel something, because I wanted to be like my sister, whom I idolized. I didn’t actually feel that sad for Ginger or Beauty.

Though I’ve given up trying to pretend I feel a magical and telepathic bond with four-legged creatures, I’m actually fairly familiar with them. I grew up with goats, chickens, cats, dogs, horses, rats, mice, fish, a frog, a chinchilla, a guinea pig, a duck, a turkey, and a cockatiel (though not all at once). I’m not afraid to touch them, pet them, or clean up after them (unless they’re dead; then I’m kind of grossed out). So they’re nothing new to me. And I should mention that I don’t care if other people own them—I sometimes even enjoy it. I just don’t want to own them myself.

So, now that you know I’m a completely cold and heartless sociopath who thinks the world would have been a better place if Noah had let the animals drown in the flood, I’ll continue with my anecdote and wait for PETA to show up at my door. 

I didn’t want a dog, but when you live with someone else, you have to be willing to make compromises. I merely wanted to ease into those compromises. So when my sister and I were making plans last spring to move in together, and she mentioned that she wanted to get a dog, I said something along the lines of, “How about we get a little settled in before we consider adopting a sixty-five-pound headache?” It can take a while to get the kinks ironed out of your life after you’ve moved from another country and started school again; I just wanted to be prepared and in a routine before we took in a creature that would most certainly throw off my groove. 

But things don’t always go the way we plan. Somehow, last June, not too many days after I’d left the True North Strong and Free for the Home of the Brave, I found myself in a black Ford Fiesta rental with my mom and sister, picking up what would prove to be a seventy-five-pound anxiety attack in a canine body. Only no one knew it. We can bring her home for a three-day trial, my sister told me. Okidoki, Artichok-ie.

Surprisingly, Lucy actually wasn’t that bad. She didn’t bark and she wasn’t yippy. She was actually calm and hardly ever whined (something I’m still very grateful for). I even took her for a run and we glided along like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astair on the dance floor. This will be great, I thought. I don’t have to be worried about getting mugged at night when I’ve got this stocky Pitbull by my side (though I was informed a while ago that she’s actually American Staffordshire). 

If only I’d known. With the cunning of Al Capone and the feigned meekness of Charlie Brown, Lucy passed the three-day trial and we made it official. We took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. After that though, it was like the mask came off and Zoro revealed her true identity.

We had purchased a standard metal dog kennel for Lucy for the hours when Sarah and I were away at work and school. I thought those things were fairly hefty. So I was surprised when I came home and found that Lucy had broken the kennel. Thus began 

Lucy-fur’s career as an escape artist. Since we’d obviously underestimated her strength, my sister said we should get a sky kennel. Supposedly these kennels are sturdy enough for airplanes to use them, so we figured this would be an excellent solution to our ninety-five pound problem. 

I came home the next day to find the door of the kennel about ten or fifteen feet across the room and the form of Lucy’s claws permanently etched into the plastic. That image is engraved in my memory and stands as a monument to Lucy’s strength. Whenever I pass by the kennel, I hear the howl of a wolf echo in my ears.

I began to jokingly tell my friends that I was wondering if our dog was possessed, and my sister and I began to seriously wonder what we were going to do with this dog. So my mom purchased a six-foot chain-link kennel and put it in the garage for us. This looked like the real deal, like juvenile hall for dogs. But what do you know? Pseudo-Charlie Brown decides she’s gonna ditch the joint. So Mom tried zip-tying the links to the metal bar on the bottom. Lucy still got out. 

In addition to her herculean strength and uncanny ability to escape, Lucy has a problem with bowel control. She almost never goes to the bathroom in the house while we’re home (something I greatly appreciate). It’s just when we leave that she can’t seem to handle it and the floodgates open. Not only does she escape. The poop does too.

Over time though, I think things have gotten a little better and we've learned how to keep her corralled. Now my sister uses a special welded kennel from Amazon for Lucy and she doesn’t seem to freak out quite as much lately. We plan to get the yard re-fenced eventually, though I’ve considered requesting a moat with crocodiles instead. Or a big wall with trip wires, one that hearkens back to East and West Germany in the 1960s.

But through this whole journey, I have to realize that none of this is Lucy’s fault. Obviously it’s an anxiety issue (and we could do better with training her). She’s also a rescue dog, so we don’t know much about her background. She has plenty of scars on her, so she could have been used as a bait dog (a smaller, younger dog who’s used to fight older dogs to build the older dog’s confidence); a sad story if it’s true. Her foster owner had problems with her jumping the fence, and I think she had to put rebar in the ground in order to keep Lucy in. So this is obviously going to be a long haul. Who knows when she’ll reach Lassie status. 

But despite the fact that Lucy still frustrates me quite often, I’m forced to admit that when I look at her, it’s like looking in a mirror. We’re actually very much alike. No, I don’t have a bowel problem. But Lucy makes decisions out of fear—a lot of fear. And that is something I think most of us can relate with.

In contrast to Lucy’s anxiety though, my fears usually cage me in and keep me from being the person God wants me to be. I feel a pull to do this thing or that thing. But what if it doesn’t work out?…What if I can’t be _______ enough?…What if I’m wrong and this isn’t what I’m supposed to do?…What if I can’t follow through?  The thoughts tumble through my head and I stay put.

Fear comes in all shapes and sizes. We’re scared people won’t like us, so we try and be someone we’re not in hopes of making the cut. We’re scared that we can’t complete our to-do lists, so we seize up with stress and lose our tempers. We’re scared of being alone, so we bury ourselves in unhealthy relationships. We’re scared other people won’t be happy with our decisions, so we live to please. We’re scared we won’t be happy if we follow the convictions God has placed on our hearts, so we ignore His voice. We’re scared we won’t be able to actually do what God has called us to do, so we never follow our passions. We’re scared we’ll be hurt or judged if we let ourselves be real and vulnerable or show our failures, so we keep a low-profile and a poker face when others share their hearts.

All shapes and sizes. Fear is a dirty shirt we all wear. But I’m tired of wearing it. I don't want to live my life caged in. The Bible says in 1 John 4:18, “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear…” (NIV). True Love is the key that unlocks the cage of fear. If we struggle with fear, it means we need to turn our eyes in a different direction, the direction of true Love—God’s love. When we realize that we belong to Someone worth loving, that we are wanted by such a beautiful Being, and that we are loved more than we dared imagine, the walls fall down. True love gives us the courage to step out and be our true selves. Instead of gritting our teeth and trying harder, let’s turn our gaze. 

Our feet will follow where our eyes lead, and step by step, the fear will fall away. It will be a journey, but don’t worry, He’s in it for the long haul.