Lucy Greyface

I love her great big face. That's all. Nothing bad, don't worry. She's fine. I just wanted to say it.

When I arrive home every evening after my ridiculous commute, I'm greeted by primal howl from the back yard, the sound I imagine a dog would make if it were being eviscerated by a puma, and that's my Lucy. The rough, ragged cry sounds as though it it being torn from her lungs. It's a horrible sound, and we don't know where she picked it up, but it seems to be an expression of her unbearable joy at being only seconds away from reuniting with us. I should record it. It's really something special.

When I open the patio door and that dense, wriggling mass of dog collides with my knees and starts licking the hem of my pants, I'm happy. It doesn't matter what mood I was in before. I can't tell you how many times I've walked in the house, muttering angrily to myself, really worked up about whatever it was, and had it melt away when I looked out the door and saw that big, goofy face staring up at me.

Good girl, Lou. Good dog.