If Lucy were a person, she’d be medicated—Zoloft, Xanax, Valium. She’d be in psychotherapy two-three times a week, multiple 12-Step programs. She’d have all sorts of labels—anxiety and borderline personality disorder, obsessive compulsive, misophoniac, mean girl. She’s pretty, so she’d milk her looks for as long as she could, then spiral into complete self-destruction. If Lucy were a person, she’d be Shakespearean tragedy tragic.
Lucy, a 12-pound white fluffy, angelic looking dog, barks at everything, every sound, every ripple. I try explaining to her that we live in a 90-unit apartment building, other people exist, and often they leave their apartments and enter the hallway where they can be heard talking, recycling, inserting their keys into their doors. Lucy’s lived in this building for nearly four years, and still every single sound causes her to go bonkers.
As crazy as she is indoors, it makes her behavior outdoors seem positively serene. Outside, she pulls, panting on her leash, to chase people, other dogs, squirrels, trucks, bunnies, bikers, skateboarders, strollers, motorcycles. If another dog gets within 10 feet of her, she goes into a frenzy, frothing. If I try to pick her up during one of these episodes, she bites me.
Lucy is my best friend/next door neighbor’s dog. She’s my dog JuJu’s best friend/girlfriend. If they were people, they would have broken up long ago. But they’re dogs, so their egos don’t get in the way. They’re in the moment, they don’t hold on to grudges. They don’t expect each other to be perfect.
Lucy takes JuJu’s toys and eviscerates them, growling at him if he tries to save them. She eats his food, steals his bones. She velcroes herself to me, then snaps at JuJu when he tries to get in on the love. JuJu’s not a doormat, though. When he’s had enough, he checks her. He pulls her away from me by her ear. He jumps up on the bed or couch, then hurls himself down on her, WWE-style. He loves Lucy unconditionally, tolerates her crazy, but sets firm, healthy boundaries. And Lucy responds by backing down, cleaning up her behavior. JuJu brings out the best in Lucy.
With JuJu, Lucy’s playful side emerges. She runs laps in my apartment, JuJu in pursuit. They dance on their hind legs. They play tug of war. They tumble and roll until both are so exhausted they flop down and take naps, snuggled together.
I watch their relationship and think, every woman deserves a man like JuJu.
I’ve spent a lifetime believing that if only I were perfect, then I’d be lovable. If only I were prettier, smarter, richer, better behaved, then I’d be ready for a loving relationship.
Lucy sets me straight.
I don’t need to be perfect, I just need to meet a man like JuJu.
