Lightning (March 5, 1996-March 7, 2008)

Our Lightning had many names. It seems that each person who knew her and loved her had their own name for her. We called her Bug, and sometimes Bugabug. Her dad called her his Princess and we laughed at her royal behaviors. At mealtime she was Light-e-ning, all those syllables spread out into a song, telling her that her dinner was ready. Her "grandparents" Deirdre and Bob called her Yightening. Her other moms, Linda and Cathy, had several names for her but the one that sticks in my mind is Humpahump, and I guess that one's obvious. I usually called her my Baby Girl, or Pretty Girl.

The photo above is about a year old. My computer file says I took it on 3/16/07. For some reason, that photo has resonated with me, and I've used it in many ways, on this blog, as my Ravelry avatar, and on Moo cards. You see, I wanted her with me all the time. I never wanted to be without Lightning.

But last Friday we had to let Lightning go. Within just two weeks of initial diagnosis, and four days after a biopsy proved what we had only suspected, Lightning was too ill to go on. We had thought we would have time to analyze data, make plans, consider treatment plans, and we had no time at all. We had to make the hardest decision ever and we made it. Just two days after her birthday, our Lightning was gone.

Lightning was always our baby. Can you tell that by the fact that we celebrated her first birthday with a full-blown pug birthday party? She's the one in front with the purple collar. Even then she was too dignified to wear her hat like the others.

But she wasn't too dignified to wolf down her special birthday cake, specially constructed from canned dog food and fresh liver, and decorated with Cheez Whiz and dog treats. Spoiled? Nah!



Lightning was definitely a dog of opinions and one who didn't mind sharing them. She was uncommonly sweet and all the vets we've met over the years have commented on her wonderful personality. I've never known her to snap or growl at a person, but I guess that's because she thought she was one. I do know that she would not hesitate to let other dogs know when they'd stepped over the edge.



One of my favorite Lightning stories is about the time we took Lightning, Bert and Bluto to the Shenandoah National Forest one Thanksgiving. Of course, there are very strict rules about keeping your pets on a leash, but the day was beautiful and the park was almost empty and we had everyone loose. They were exploring the area, checking for deer scat (mmm, yum!) and frolicking in the stream, all of their little black bellies damp from dragging in the water. Suddenly, across the field came another unleashed dog, this one a huge Bull Mastiff.



The Mastiff was friendly enough, and only wanted to sniff us and maybe to play with one of those tiny (everything is relative!) pugs. But as he neared me, Lightning went into full executive protection mode. She leapt for the Mastiff's throat and clamped on with her teeth, growling. The Mastiff never even slowed--I'm not even sure he noticed there was an angry pug hanging from his throat like a flea. He gave her a gentle shake and she hung on until we separated them. That was typical of my Baby Girl, making sure that no big guy hurt us.



The other thing about Lightning is that she loved children. She especially loved our grandchildren. In fact, Cole went with me to pick her out, on the day she was born or a few days after. She wasn't even supposed to be born, of course. Her mama, Bubba, was a notorious tease, and had had several false pregnancies. I finally told Deirdre that if her crazy dog ever did produce puppies, we'd take one. And then came the call--there were puppies. Lightning and her littermate Thunder were the only two who survived from that first litter, and Cole zeroed in on her instantly. She was his baby, too, and all of the grandchildren's. Brandon characterized her last week as "the man." So I guess she has one more name, now.



Sleep well, Baby Girl. I hope you're frolicking with Bertie, chasing squirrels and splashing through creeks. We love you and we miss you. How am I supposed to sleep with no one skrit-skritting at the bedroom door to wake me up?