It's easy to look back at Lily's life, because she was such an easy dog to own - after she got past her puppyhood issues. We brought Lily and her brother Chewy home during the Charming and Delightful's recovery from back surgery. They kept each other occupied, which is another way of saying they gave each other inventive ideas to get into puppy trouble. Most notably, they once escaped their enclosure and ate a couch. We're pretty sure Lily was the brains of the operation. (Chewy wasn't ever really housebroken; he just followed Lily out the door, and then when he found himself outside, he figured he might just as well go...)
When we moved out to Germantown Hills, Lily exploited her new fenceless yard by gallivanting about farther than the eye could see. More than once I had to coax them into the car to bring them home from adventuring, but it was a way to meet the neighbors. Not the best way, because nothing says 'hi neighbor' like dragging your dogs out of someone's yard.
One of Lily's defining characteristics was entirely my fault. We had thoughts of breeding her, but hadn't done much about it. She was in heat, wandering around the yard while I mowed. Then she was gone. When the C&D asked me why I wasn't watching her, I was like, what's the big deal? Apparently, the call of the wild is, when you're a girl dog in heat. She came home hours later, completely exhausted and looking like she'd been through a car anti-wash - soaking wet and covered in grime and mud. And that's how she became a mama dog. She was almost a perfect mom - I'd strike the 'almost', but she tried to have her litter under our bed.
And oh what a litter it was! 13 puppies, every one of them black as night, with varying touches of white. If Lily noticed they bore her no resemblance whatsoever, it never showed in her care and attention. She was such a doting and caring mother that we called her Lily Mamas from that point forward.
She loved all babies, especially Hunter. Lily was very possessive of him, always sniffing at him and needing to know where he was at all times. She would pace back and forth and whine outside his bedroom if the door was closed. Ashley swears Lily gave her an evil eye - implying she was a bad mom - whenever he cried.
Lily didn't eat like any other dog we've ever had. Most dogs will chomp whatever is near their mouth. Not Lily. She would sniff everything, from treats to corn curls to steak, and nibble at it like a kid eating brussel sprouts. No matter how many Scoobie snacks I would give her, she'd act like she'd never seen one, and want to be sure it met her standards. It never failed to amuse me - my dog the food snob. After she finished eating, she would come find us, wherever we were, and prance around our feet with her dopey face. It was like she was thanking us for feeding her. Then she would wipe her mouth on the nearest couch - one pass for the left side of her muzzle, a return trip for the right. The C&D didn't like it, obviously, but it was another thing that never failed to amuse me - my dog with manners.
She had a lot of names. Besides Lily or Lily Mama, we often called her the Babies Mama. After the puppies left, we shortened Babies Mama to just Babies, or Mamas. We referred to her by color, Red Dog, her sex, Girl Dog, or breed, Golden. Megan and one of Ashley's friends started calling her Wilma for some odd reason and it stuck. Well, sorta. I thought it upset her, so I wouldn't use it. Sometimes when we wanted to get her excited, we would call her LilyMamasLilyMamasLilyMamasLilyMamas, (I don't know if she liked it, but it was fun to say). If she didn't come right away when we called, maybe it was because she didn't realize we were talking to her.
She was extremely connected to the C&D's emotions. Good or bad, Lily always knew. More than once I came home from work to find them curled up together on the couch - a sure sign of a bad day. More often than not the door opened to a prancing, spinning golden retriever. Lily was a happy, joyful dog. She loved to roll over on her back and show us her belly for rubbing. Every time she went up the stairs, she would stop and poke her nose through the ballisters for what we called stair love. It was very cute, unless you were behind her and needed to get up the stairs.
Out in the yard, she loved rolling in the grass or lolling in the sun. Unlike her brother or her son, she wouldn't chase a ball or a bird or a stick or a squirrel. But she stalked the frogs in the pond. Back and forth, back and forth - she would pace the edge of the pond to locate her prey.
Once she spotted one, she would freeze into a point and slowly, slowly move in for the kill. Except they almost always escaped. She would spend ten minutes locked onto a frog, and when she got within four inches - bloop! - into the water they went. Then she would walk away. Never once did she show the slightest sign of frustration or disappointment - she was like, that was fun! And then five minutes later she'd be back to do it again. The hardest part is the missing routines. Nothing seems quite right. I never realized how many times I said 'c'mon dogs'. Every night I turn off the TV and say c'mon dogs, let's go to bed. When I come in from outside, it's c'mon dogs, let's go inside. Did you feed the dogs? You dogs want to go? Open the door to let the dogs in or out. Now Lucky Dog is the only dog. He keeps looking at the garage door, expecting her to come in. Me too, buddy, me too.
Our Savior says the greatest compliment a master can bestow is to say well done, good and faithful servant. I believe that. Lily Mama, we will miss you so very, very much.
Well done, good and faithful dog.
