Tribute to Lilly, My Writing Buddy

 The Covid-19 pandemic, apocalyptic wildfires in the west, horrific hurricanes hitting the Gulf Coast states, lawmakers and citizens denying science and refusing to keep themselves safe by simply wearing a facemask.   

Then Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away on Friday.

Bad week. Bad week, for sure.

Made worse when we picked up the cremated remains of our shih-tzu Lilly on Saturday. 

She was about fourteen years old and had been with us for about seven. She was a rescue, so we didn’t know much about her life before she came to be part of the family.  Stacy, the wonderful woman who brought us Lilly, told us that she thought Lilly had been kept in a crate for long periods of time.  As a result, her back legs were a little wonky and not particularly strong. Sometimes she’d get tired on a long walk and just lay down in the grass.  

Good advice for all of us, I think.  When life gets to be too much, go outside, and lay down in the grass.

Lilly loved being in my office, a finished room over the garage, sleeping on the love seat next to my desk, or snoozing among my many notebooks on the floor, while I’d write.  I liked looking over at her, watching her breathe, and somehow the world felt like it was okay.

And if I got up from my desk to go downstairs for a cup of coffee, she’d spot me when I returned,  flip over on her back, and insist on having her tummy rubbed.  

We should always make time for tummy rubs.

In the evening, that’s when Cindy and I would watch television and Lilly would snooze until I went downstairs for something.  God help me if I came upstairs without bringing her some treats.  Inevitably, I had to go back downstairs to fetch them or she’d give me the stink eye until I did.

We should always make time for treats. 

Quick story about how much we love our dogs.  About five years ago during a freak February ice storm (we live on the coast of North Carolina) my wife Cindy was getting ready to take Lilly out for her final walk of the night.

Being the good husband, I told her, “No, honey.  It’s still sleeting, let me do it.”  And she did.

I carried Lilly out into the cold dark night, ice pellets bouncing off my hat, down the driveway, and across the street to the corner, where all the neighborhood dogs seem have been at one time or another.  I set Lilly down and waited, listening to the ice hit the road and the tree limbs in the darkness above me.

There was a sudden noise that sounded like a cannon shot.  Without thinking, I put my arm up over my head.

The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and Lilly was looking genuinely confused but unscathed.  

That’s when I realized that I’d been hit by a falling tree limb and my right arm no longer seemed to work.  We both got back to the house and an ambulance took me to the hospital where it was judged that my arm was broken.

The story about the ice storm was on the front page of our hometown newspaper, noting that there had been one serious injury as a result, telling the world about my dog walking mishap.

On Thursday I went into surgery and while I was there, my assistant where I worked fielded calls from people who had read the story.  She’d tell them that I was fine and undergoing surgery.

Every single one of them said, “Yeah, that’s good news about Tom.  But how’s Lilly?”

She was fine.  I broke the fall of the tree limb with my body.  It appeared I was expendable, but everyone loves dogs, and Lilly was well known in our neighborhood. 

Not having her here has left a huge hole in our lives.  The house feels empty.  Lilly was our friend and protector of our home.  We never once have had a squirrel inside the house.  

She was also my writing buddy and right now while I’m sitting at my desk with my laptop in front of me, I wish I could turn to her, give her a tummy rub, and get her some treats.