There was a dog named Lucy who used to meet us at the lake.

We didn’t know where she came from, just that she had a collar and somehow always found us. Every time we showed up, there she was—tail wagging, eyes locked on whatever we were holding. Especially if it looked like a rock.

At first, we tried to ignore her. She begged us to throw it, pawing at the dirt, barking softly, waiting. Eventually, just to get her to leave us alone, we tossed the rock far out into the lake.

That’s when she dove in.

Like, fully committed—splashed in, disappeared underwater, and then, to our amazement, came back with the rock in her mouth.

We were stunned. This wasn’t fetch. This was something else. She had learned to dive. And that turned into a game we played for years.

We’d throw a rock—sometimes far too deep, sometimes impossible—and she’d go after it. If she couldn’t find the one we threw, she’d bring back a different rock. Never empty-pawed. Never discouraged. Just thrilled to be playing.

Lucy, as we knew her, didn’t need instructions. She just needed the chance to jump in and come back with something.

I’m not sure what happened to her eventually. But that memory surfaced recently when someone told me they remembered a story I’d written about “being as happy as a hammer dog.” I don’t remember writing it. But I’m grateful they remembered it, because even if this isn’t the exact story, it’s one that clearly needed to be dug out of me.