The Last Time You’ll Leave This Place

The officer called her Lucy. I called her “Three-time.” Neither of us knew she was about to get a final name—and a forever home.

We’d lost Abby about six months earlier. One hundred and ninety-three days to be exact. Her absence was sharp—an empty hollow in the bed, the sound of toenails on the floor gone silent. She’d changed our lives forever, being a beloved family member for over ten years.

The day after we said goodbye, we were supposed to leave for a trip with friends. But we were too raw to pretend our way through it. We canceled. The time off was already on the calendar, so we just packed a bag, picked a direction, and drove. South from Little Rock, an overnight in Austin, and on to San Antonio. It wasn’t a vacation so much as a way to keep moving when home felt too empty.

For months after, we told ourselves it was too soon for another dog. Too easy to compare one life to another. Instead, we filled the time with things we couldn’t easily do when Abby was with us. Day trips. Last minute long-weekends. The kind of freedom you notice most when you’ve just lost the reason you gave it up in the first place.

But friends and family couldn’t help themselves. They kept sending posts of adoptable dogs.

“This one made me think of you.”

“You should go meet her.”

We weren’t ready, though I’d be lying if I said we weren’t tempted. Each picture was a little crack in our resolve.

By spring, we started making the rounds—three shelters in one Saturday. We met dogs who could have fit right in. Fell in love with most in turn. And still, we left empty-handed.

There was one shelter we wanted to visit but couldn’t. Their hours were strictly Monday through Friday, eight to five—difficult for us to make. Then, by chance, we heard they’d be open for a short time on Memorial Day. It felt like a break in the rules just for us. We decided to go.

We went to see a specific dog we’d found online. But as happens in shelters, the plan unraveled. One pen led to another. We visited several dogs that day.

The animal control officer told us she had the perfect dog for us—a young female named Lucy—and went to fetch her from her kennel.

Lucy was an older puppy. Playful, but not rude. She had a kind of patience I didn’t expect from a dog her age.

We also met Kody, a husky mix about the same age. He was a little more active—excitable—but still the kind of puppy who would grow into a good dog. We came close to taking them both, but one puppy is work enough without doubling down.

I leaned toward Kody. My wife cautiously sweet on Lucy. She wanted a female. And Lucy’s manners were hard to ignore. I decided she’d be just fine.

That’s when we learned Lucy’s history. She’d been adopted and returned twice. Once when her new owner was hospitalized. The second time when the other dogs in her new home wouldn’t accept her. Sweet and submissive, she’d had no defense. Her last owner had brought her back in tears.

We filled out the paperwork. The officer walked her out to the truck, gave her a smooch, and helped her into the back seat. I joked, calling her “Three-time.”

Lucy curled up immediately, her eyes half-closed before we even pulled away. It was the look of someone who’d decided she could finally rest.

Driving out of the parking lot, I glanced over my shoulder at her. “This is the last time you’ll leave this place,” I said.

We wanted her to have a fresh start, so we talked about names on the drive home. Ideas flew—some good, some ridiculous. I landed on Lottie, and it stuck. In those first few miles it felt like she’d won the lottery—and so did we.

The first trip after Abby’s passing had been about getting away from the ache of home. 

This one was different. 

This time, we’d picked a direction—and brought her home with us.

P.S. Later that week we learned Kody had been adopted.