Losing Lucy

Our dog Lucy died last night. We found her in the morning, in the shade of her beloved mango tree in our backyard of Barquisimeto, where we shared countless conversations and even cups of coffee. My partner Ledys always saved the last half of his coffee for her, when milk and sugar were readily available. Lucy would sit patiently at his feet, awaiting that glorious moment each morning.

Lucy was patient with us even when the milk and sugar ran out, and the only drink we could offer was water. She still looked lovingly into our eyes, not a bit less dedicated to us with all the affection she could muster.

For half of her eight years, Lucy lived joyfully off the abundant scraps from our table. I should point out that our table is rather gigantic, owing to its prime place in our family’s lives, a hub for sharing, dreaming, scheming with friends and visitors from near and far. Lucky for Lucy, this habit provided her with a steady stream of nutritious scraps.

Slowly, though, as Venezuela’s crisis deepened, the food and the gatherings and the celebrating began to disappear. And with it, the left-overs. A kilo of rice procured after days of searching and standing in lines transformed each grain into a nugget of gold. Fewer and fewer grains found their way to Lucy’s bowl.

With no scraps to share, we pounded the pavement in search of dog food. At first we only had to search for an hour, buying a sack for about $2. The hunt turned to an entire afternoon, then a day, sometimes longer. The price went to $5, then $10, $20, $60, about a year’s salary for the average Venezuelan.

Still, Lucy’s bowl under the mango tree was filled each morning. But even as the price of dog food skyrocketed, the quality plummeted. Name brands disappeared from the shelves, the only options became sacks of ever more questionable quality.

I can’t say for sure that Lucy died from the food crisis of my adopted country, but I think that might be the case. I can say for sure, her loss has broken my heart

This afternoon I sat under the guama tree in our farm in Sanare and cried my heart out. At first it was for Lucy, and the memories of those cups of coffee, those silent tete-a-tetes. But then it was for all the country.

By the time of my afternoon cry, I counted 19 people who had come to visit me that day. Lelo and sons and granddaughters brought posts for my fence, Eli and Mamari returned a table, Bebe and Yeli came to stomp mud for my chicken coop, Nani and Lucia and Maria Jose brought milk from their grandfather’s cow, Marigres and Elida came to ask about borrowing chairs for their sons’ graduation. Juan Carlitos brought me seeds to plant, and Manuela brought her kids and cousin and long lost friend Emiliano to visit.

Over 19 cups of coffee, my neighbors and I shared the ins and outs of our day, our lives, our country, our woes, our hopes. As Ledys and I had done so many mornings with Lucy under the mango tree.

Lelo shared how he spent the past three days with fever and aches, and no medicine for relief. Marigres told me of her search for a nebulizer for her two asthmatic kids. They had missed three months of school. She cried silently in the nights as she rubbed their backs, her hands being the only medicine she could offer.

Bebe and Yeli had spent the morning following bees near the river, striking it rich with a find of wild honey for their hungry daughter. Tiny Lucia trailed along with her cousins just to give me a hug, her body fragile in my embrace. Alba was enjoying a day of rest from her daily long walks to and from school where she earns $5 a month as a teacher. There are almost no public buses running, she explained. Elida wondered what the next six years would bring, dumbfounded how the same president who presided over this tragedy had been re-elected.

I let the tears flow like the waters of the Fumarola that nourish our small village. Its waterfall – the lovely backdrop to my front yard, hurls free fall down the face of the mountain at a dramatic speed. Waterfall and tears all felt like one. Falling, churning, burning, cleansing, draining, all at once. I let the pain go

Then I came back into my kitchen and poured a treasured bag of rice into my biggest pan and cooked it all up with three enormous overgrown kohlrabi from the garden that Emiliano helped me cut up, boiling the heck out of them, and blended them with rice. I don’t know if kohlrabi rice is recommended for dogs, but I had to do something. There was no way I was going to lose my two farm pups to Lucy’s fate. 

And so it is with my days here. I have to do something. Tomorrow afternoon the guides from our kids farming collective will come, we will continue to prepare the beds for the 60+ kinds of seed donated by amazing people who don’t even know them

Such a mystery in each seed that such life, beauty, nourishment, springs from something so tiny, so inanimate, so mundane. Such a mystery in each of these kids who come from some of the poorest homes on the plant but have the richest of smiles and hugs and spirit. Such a mystery that a four legged creature with a tail could rule my heart.

 

Lucy is gone. The Venezuela I knew for 35 years is gone. I must trust that something will grow from these shared seeds of pain.

Meanwhile, someone please hand me a hoe.