As I buried my face in his furry neck, I felt my dog take his last breath.
My beautiful 14-year-old Jack Russell was gone. Lying with him in his bed, his body still, I cried with an intensity that shook me to my core. I realized I was crying harder than I had in years, my pain so intense, it was as if a part of me had been clawed and ripped out. Lulu was the first dog I had lifted from the cradle to the grave.
I had other dogs before him, but what I had with Lulu was different. He was born the night my father died, so I imagined he had come into my life to watch over me. Difficult to raise, intensely fearful and aggressive from a young age, and overly protective of me at times, Lulu forced me to become more patient. He was my baby, and I was his daddy. He was a constant presence in my life, always there to lick away my tears. I adored him, and in return, he gave me his unwavering devotion and loyalty.
I still keep his cheap dog training collar.