April 4, 2007
I met Lucy in 1991, when I was hired by her owner, a true crime TV movie producer who lived and worked in a gigantic loft just south of Washington Square. The producer’s children had named their dog for the crabby, duplicitous character in Charles Schulz’ comic strip Peanuts, and they were off by more than a mile. Lucy was a stereotypically sweet golden retriever who only leapt on you for the joy of it. Her only quirk was gnawing on used tampons. In the dog run, her beta shuffle drew bullies. Her greatest happiness was sleeping at someone’s feet.