Losing My Shadow Lulu
Lulu, my trusty companion for seven years, died on November 4th, 2022. I adopted her in 2015 from the Auburn Vet Clinic. Her owner had abandoned her. She adjusted quickly to her new home in Greensboro.
After Sophie’s disappearance and the loss of Big Shep to old age, she became our fur baby. She and I suffered through a traumatic experience together a couple years later, and ever since then, she became my living shadow. I had taken her on a field trip to a friend’s farm and as soon as she got out of my truck, the farm’s dogs chased her. I figured she’d eventually make her way back. Several hours later, no Lulu. After searching on the farm and with the advent of nightfall, I reluctantly left with plans to return at first light. For six days, I returned to the farm, searched neighboring properties, and drove miles along county roads. One day, as I checked roadside ditches, fearing she may have been hit by a vehicle, I nearly ran a Greene County Sheriff’s Deputy off the road. On the sixth day, David called and told me he’d seen her eating spilled shrimp feed in his barn. Karen and I immediately drove to the farm and found her on a nearby hillside. Well, ever since that day she never, never left my sight.
She was so intelligent. She’d learn new commands in a manner of minutes. She would chase squirrels away from the bird feeders and rather than stand and fight the neighborhood dogs during my jogs, simply outrun them and circle back to join me for the finish. She loved to travel on long trips. She was almost always with me since I retired. The last two years together were the best of times.
On the day of her passing, I took her to a friend’s pond. During the course of this typical visit, she jumped in and out of my friend’s utility vehicle. As we loaded up to go home, she reluctantly jumped inside my crew cab. I noted this hesitancy as odd. Several miles down the road, she showed no interest in riding next to me, front legs on the center console. Instead, she laid prone on the floorboard, seemingly in a daze. I thought she’d had a stroke or something and headed straight to the vet clinic. She clearly wasn’t well. I thought maybe she had gotten into some poison at my friend’s farm but an urgent call ruled that out.
As we waited together in the exam room, her condition worsened. Her breathing became labored. She got very lethargic. It was difficult for her to stand. As I got up to leave and call Karen to advise her that Lulu wasn’t well, she managed to get up to her feet, wobble over to me, and give me two quick wags of her tail, look me in the eyes and I realize now, she was saying goodbye.
As Karen and I met out in the parking lot (she was at work), Dr. Perry came out and told us she was gone. They attempted to keep her alive with a trauma kit, epinephrine shots and CPR, but these efforts weren’t enough.
I requested an autopsy. Several hours later we learned what had happened. German Shepherds are prone to a cancer known as hemangiosarcoma. Basically, a large non-symptomatic cancer tumor ruptures and results in extensive bleeding and death. Her jumping in and out of vehicles earlier that morning finally ruptured a large tumor on her liver.
The sudden shock of her passing was almost too much for me to bear. Karen offered to show me her autopsy photos. I couldn’t look at them. For two days, I shed tears not having her at my side. Her nuzzling me first thing in the morning, letting me know it was time to get going. The jangle of her collar tags. Her excitement as I tied my running shoes. My grieving eased knowing that I had always treated her kindly and she had lived the best life a dog could ever have.
I prayed her last words to me would have been:
Please don’t be angry with me as I go before we both get old. You still have Lady, your friends and your pursuits. I only have you.
You’ve treated me well. I won’t forget. Thanks for never hurting me.
Remember, I love you. And I’ll be waiting for you.
Lulu now rests under a white dogwood tree near her house. It’s the only planted dogwood tree in the yard. Every spring, its white blossoms will be a tribute to my special shadow.
Rest in eternal peace, Lulu. I miss you.