Lucy

"To live long, eat like a cat, drink like a dog."

- German Proverb

"Look how lucky we are," he said as he bent over and began playing tug of war with Lucy. She'd been sitting patiently at his feet, staring at him intently, as she waited for the joyous moment he would attempt to snatch the blue scrap of rope she was holding tightly in her teeth. "We have a great life. We're living the dream," he said. He was sentimental and favored cliche. Though I often rolled my eyes, I secretly loved that about him.

He'd begrudgingly agreed to bring Lucy home from my brother's house. My brother bred English bulldogs and Lucy was by far the sweetest of his latest litter. A little, white, wrinkly, cuddly lump with tiny brown spots on her ears, she'd slept in my lap all Christmas day. Employing the "if I still wanted her in a week" strategy, I'd left her that Christmas day and pouted the entire ride home. A week later, on New Year's Eve, Lucy came home.

Despite a gloomy forecast, it'd been a warm, sunny Saturday. "Come outside with us," he said as he walked toward the front door. Lucy had, of course, beaten him there and was wiggling excitedly as he opened the door. I told him I'd be there in a minute and walked toward the kitchen. Moments later I emerged from the house, a dirty martini in hand, to see Lucy chasing him - and her blue rope - wildly around the yard. He was slightly out of breath and laughing that big, belly laugh that everyone loved. My heart swelled. She was quickly edging me out as his best friend. "Who's that," he asked her as they paused for the briefest moment to acknowledge my presence. Wanting in on the fun, I took a quick sip, set the drink on the white wicker stand and headed down the porch steps. As I walked toward them he threw the rope to me and she charged. He laughed even harder. Smiling, I silently agreed, we were living the dream.