I Found My Best Friend On The Side Of The Road

Writer's note: This is a personal essay about loss, gratitude and a very good dog. It’s longer and a little different than our usual fare, but it’s one I felt compelled to write.

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"Is that a dog?"

My dad stopped the truck abruptly in the middle of the road and pointed toward something under a mailbox. It was dark, and the storm had just settled. But through the streaky windshield, I could just barely make out what appeared to be a ball of black fur and a couple of tiny eyeballs glimmering in the distance.

"It sure looks like it," I said, as I opened the door and hopped out to investigate.

I scooped up the little dog and held her in my arms. She had delightful puppy breath, and her paws, which were too big for her body, smelled like Fritos. Her fluff was jet black, but for a thin line of white down her chest and one white paw. She was maybe 6 pounds, and she was scared. I felt her heart beat fast as her paws dug into my shoulder. She cried and nibbled at my ear with her needle-sharp puppy teeth.

I cradled her in my chest and climbed back into the truck.

(Amber Harding Snyder)

It was June 2009, and I had just finished my sophomore year at Tennessee. I was home in Indiana for the summer, and my dad and I had been on our way to grab some take-out. My mom instantly objected the moment I walked through her front door carrying a puppy.

"Absolutely not," she declared, pointing to the two Yorkies who had just rushed to the foyer to sniff the new arrival. "We cannot have another dog."

Her opposition further intensified that next morning when we awoke to ear-splitting shrieking. I rushed downstairs to find our house guest, crying, huddled in the corner of the kennel, surrounded by putrid puddles of poo — with dozens of spaghetti-like worms crawling through the sludge.

After hosing down the kennel and the pup, we headed straight to the vet, where my dad dropped a few hundred bucks on worming tablets and vaccinations for a dog we'd plucked off the side of the road just 12 hours earlier. Despite his sometimes gruff exterior, he's always been a big softy.

At Mom's insistence, we did try to find the true owner of the dog. Dad and I put up fliers around the neighborhood, knocked on doors and even told the local vet clinics to keep an eye out in case someone reported a lost 8 to 10-week-old puppy. But no one ever came forward, and we ultimately concluded that someone probably just didn't want her — dumped her on purpose.

Their loss. I named her Lucy.

Lucy Goes To College

After seeking approval from my three roommates, I drove this puppy to Knoxville to live with me in my college apartment. Before I knew it, that tiny black, docile ball of fluff grew into a 45-pound bolt of lightning. 

Lucy had endless energy and was deceptively strong for her size. She could leap over our couch in a single bound. When I'd let her off her leash in the courtyard, it was like letting go of the plunger on a pinball machine. Then, whenever I'd get almost close enough to leash her back up, she'd juke to the side and evade capture. It was a game, but she was the only one playing.

(Amber Harding Snyder)

One day, while I was taking a nap at my friend's apartment in between classes, Lucy escaped out a first-floor window that had been left open. I woke up to a phone call from a confused stranger. Thank goodness I had my phone number printed on her tag.

"Hi, uh, is this Lucy's owner? I work at the print shop on Lake, and your dog just let herself in."

I had to crate-train her that whole first year. If left unattended, Lucy would eat everything in sight — leaving chewed-up phone chargers, makeup brushes, bras, socks and even an entire windowsill in her wake.

Yes, a windowsill

I frantically called the vet one afternoon after she chewed a TV remote control in half. I couldn't find one of the batteries, and I was worried that she might have eaten it. If she had pierced it with her teeth and swallowed it, the vet explained, the battery could cause chemical burns or even kill her. As a broke college student, an X-ray alone (not to mention surgery) would have drained my bank account and then some. But I was ready to go hungry to save my dog's life, so I leashed her up to visit the doctor. In a last-ditch effort, I flipped over the love seat one more time.

A Triple-A battery rolled out from underneath. 

I'd never felt so relieved. Lucy was saved, and I could afford to eat the rest of the month.

That puppy phase was over before I knew it. Lucy responded tremendously to her obedience training, and she learned to channel her endless energy through daily runs along the Tennessee River. It was good training for me, too. She became a pro at catching a Frisbee. Every day, the neighbors would sit out on their balconies to cheer on my furry little athlete while she gracefully flew through the air to catch her favorite toy.

Pure athlete.

(Amber Harding Snyder)

Wherever I went, so did Lucy. My friends — and even people I had never met — came to know her as "the party dog," as she was a fixture around campus, every shindig in our apartment complex and at each Tennessee tailgate.

Those were some rough years for Tennessee football. But somehow Lucy always knew just how to put a smile on my face after a disappointing Saturday.

Go West, Young Dog

In 2011, I moved to Phoenix to get my Master's at Arizona State. My friends and family thought I was bonkers, at 22 years old, for moving all the way across the country to a state where I didn't know a soul. 

Aren't you scared? You're going to be all alone out there! There are good schools east of the Mississippi, too, you know.

But, honestly, I wasn't scared at all. And I wasn't alone, either. 

Lucy hopped into the backseat of my bright yellow Pontiac, and — with my parents tailing in a U-Haul truck — we set off on our 2,000-mile trek across I-40. After a road trip I'll never forget and carrying everything I owned up three flights of stairs to my new, 600-square-foot apartment, Mom and Dad headed to the airport. Lucy and I were left to start our new life.

Maybe I was fearless because she was fearless. I never found one thing that dog was afraid of. Storms? She'd stare down the nastiest, loudest of thunder and lightning without a flinch. Fireworks? She'd stand outside in the yard and watch them with delight. An animal three times her size? Lucy would square up on sight.

We took up hiking in the desert. Lucy trekked every trail, summitted every mountain and climbed every butte that allowed dogs in the Phoenix Metro Area. In the summer (which lasts about eight months in central Arizona), I'd take her out before sunrise so that she could properly adventure before the temperature became unbearable.

Every time, I prayed we didn't run into one of those nasty desert javelinas. They were known to attack and sometimes kill dogs in the area. But, if I'm being honest, going after my scrappy mutt would have been the stupid pig's last mistake. Luckily, we never saw one.

One of Lucy's many treks up Camelback Mountain.

(Amber Harding Snyder)

After getting my Master's from ASU, I scored my first real media job with Major League Baseball covering the Diamondbacks. I made two stops on my way home that day: to the liquor store for a bottle of celebratory champagne and to the dog bakery for baseball-shaped biscuits. 

Lucy deserved to celebrate, too.

Back Home To Tennessee

I spent four years in Arizona before I accepted a job with the Tennessee Titans. So on a sunny afternoon in March 2015, I loaded Lucy into that same yellow Pontiac, and we made that same drive back across I-40.

After a year in Nashville, I compiled every dime of savings I had, and I bought my first house. A homeowner at barely 27 years old — I was so proud. On the day I got my keys, I took a selfie with Lucy in front of our new home. She looked at me like she was proud of me, too.

(Amber Harding Snyder)

Or maybe she was just excited about that fenced-in backyard. It was just the right size for tossing a Frisbee.

Lucy continued to live up to her reputation as a party dog, as my house became the official headquarters for all my friends and co-workers to convene before a night on Broadway, to crash after the bars, to watch the games or throw a holiday party. Sometimes they'd come over just to see Lucy.

She did this thing where she'd stand on the couch and wait for you to approach. "Hugs!" you'd say, and she'd put her front paws up on your shoulders — pushing her face into the crook of your neck. She did this with everyone she loved. It's not a trick I taught her. Just something she liked to do.

I had a doggy door installed in my bedroom, so she could go in and out as she pleased. It was as much her house as it was mine.

When I look back on that period of my life, I remember having a lot of fun, almost always surrounded by friends. Truthfully, I was blessed. 

But those were some really tough times, too. After thinking I was en route to the career of my dreams, I unexpectedly lost my job — the whole reason I moved to Nashville in the first place — and had to go back to bartending to make ends meet. I'll spare you the sob story, but I went through some personal struggles as well.

Lucy was my light in the storm. She was my constant. Some days when things got really hard, I'd get down on the floor and curl up in her bed next to her. She always scooted over to make room for me. And she'd look at me like she understood every single thing I felt, every word I said.

There was so much wisdom in that salt and pepper face. 

The Best Dog I'll Ever Know

In January 2020, I met my husband, Mike. They say, "When you know, you know." And boy did I ever. We "quarantined" together during COVID, and a year later, I was selling my house and moving in with him.

Lucy fell in love with him, too. Maybe because he threw the Frisbee way better than I did. Or because he always saved her a little bit of steak after dinner. But I think it was mostly because he made her mama happy. And when I was happy, Lucy was happy.

When Mike and I got married, we had a custom action figure of Lucy on our wedding cake. Just because dogs weren't allowed at the venue didn't mean she wouldn't be a part of our big day. Of course, we brought her along on the honeymoon.

Lucy was well into her senior years at this point, and her joints were starting to show it. Her Frisbee sessions got shorter, and her rugged backcountry hikes turned into gentle strolls around the neighborhood. When the stairs got too hard for her, she stopped sleeping in our bedroom at night and, instead, staked her claim to the best spot on the couch. I gave her daily arthritis meds and hip massages.

Every once in a while, though, those zoomies would hit, and Lucy would sprint around the house, leaping from one end of the sofa to the other. In those moments, I saw my puppy again. I saw my wild girl who leaped over couches and scurried up mountains without a care in the world.

But I knew the inevitable would eventually come. And I knew it would break me.

In late September 2024, my whole world stood still. As we snuggled on the couch watching TV, I noticed a lump in Lucy's mouth. My husband told me not to jump to conclusions — that it could be benign. But I knew, and the vet confirmed my fear. 

It was an aggressive cancer. Her nearly 16-year-old body wouldn't handle chemo, and I didn't want to put her through that anyway. The doctor told me she could remove the mass, but it would grow back.

We had it removed anyway. I needed to buy myself a little time.

In the weeks that followed, I made it my mission to ensure not a single moment with Lucy would be wasted. I fed her whatever she wanted (as long as it was safe, of course), I canceled all my plans to be with her, she received visits from all my friends and family who had loved her over the years, and we danced around to "Rocky Top" after watching Tennessee beat Alabama.

A month later, my husband and I put her in the car and drove 12 hours to Fort Myers Beach, where we had taken her on so many vacations before. She loved to roll in the sand and splash in the ocean, and I needed to make sure she got to do that one more time. We stayed for a week, taking her every day to play on the beach and to watch the dolphins jump in the river.

I even hired a photographer. God, that dog was so happy that day. She was glowing. I'll treasure these photos and those memories forever.

Lucy and I said our last goodbyes on January 12, 2025 — exactly one year ago today.

Would you believe it's taken me a year to write this? Partly because I couldn't do it without bawling like a baby, but mostly because I couldn't find the words. I'm a professional writer. But this is the hardest thing I've ever had to put on paper. Because every time I tried to properly eulogize Lucy, nothing I could say would ever do her justice. At least not in my eyes. 

So thank you for bearing with me. And if you've made it this far, I'm guessing you, too, had a dog like Lucy — one who impacted your life in the best way and left an impression that will follow you for the rest of your days.

A "soul dog," as they say.

I guess that's why there's so much of my life story in this eulogy. Because for me, those 16 years of life and Lucy can't be separated. Lucy touched all of it — every major life event and every person I knew from the time I was 20 years old.

That's the beautiful thing about dogs, isn't it? How they somehow manage to become a part of us. Then take some of us with them when they go.

Shortly after we returned home from the beach, Lucy's tumor started growing bigger by the day. I spent a lot of sleepless nights sitting next to her on the couch, keeping her comfortable and cleaning up blood. I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.

When the doctor came to our house on that cold January afternoon, I knew she was ready. I wasn't. I never would be. But she had been my rock for so long, and I owed her the same.

I laid down next to her on her bed on the floor. Of course, she scooted over to make room. I hugged her close, and I thanked her for taking care of me all those years. I told her she was the best dog in the world. That I'd never, ever forget her.

And when she was gone, I held her in my arms and I carried her to the truck — just like I did on the night we met. It sounds really sad when you put it like that. And it was. But there was something poetic about it, too. Even though she posthumously peed all over me.

Her last little gift, I suppose.

When I look back on Lucy's final days — heartbreaking though they were — I feel an enormous sense of gratitude. How lucky I was to have the love and adoration of this perfect soul. To have the privilege of watching her grow from a scared little pup to a confident force. To have found my very best friend on the side of the road.

How lucky I was.