My wife and I are dog people.
We’ve had a cat in the past, and enjoy our daughters’ cats now, but we’re dog people. That one cat? My wife was pregnant with our first, and she wanted a baby right now. So, we got one. 17 years, and she was a good one.
Dogs, though. We love ‘em.
Last night, I found myself laughing the kind of laugh that’s usually reserved for the classroom. Sometimes, during those times, a student will ask me what I’m laughing at.
“My lot in life,” I’ll reply. “My lot in life.”
I always say it with a smile.
A number of months ago, maybe eight, the family two doors down went through an extremely difficult time. Knowing they had a small dog, my wife went over to ask if they needed help with it during what was a painful transition.
My mother, in town for a visit, and I were sitting on our side porch enjoying the day as Lisa walked down the sidewalk.
Five minutes later, much to our absolute amazement, my wife came walking back down the sidewalk, a small dog crate in one hand and an even smaller dog tucked into her other arm.
We, it seemed, had a Lulu.
She answers to that name, so it’s stayed. I’m all about other folks having a dog named Lulu, but I’ve got to confess I never thought I’d have one of my own.
We’ve always been medium-sized dog owners, but now we had a little mostly-Maltese mix. Named Lulu.
The neighbor on one side of us has a former military working dog named Ivan. The neighbor on the other side has an aging beast that goes by JD, named after the popular sipping beverage distilled in Lynchburg, Tennessee, some 20 miles to the north of us.
We’ve got a Lulu.
I love our dog, but that laugh? The one I mentioned earlier? Every once in a while it hits me hard as I’m standing at the back door, yelling loud enough to be heard at the far end of the yard. Loud enough for Ivan’s owner as well as JD’s to hear me if they were outside.
“Lulu! Lulu! Come on, girl!”
I’m glad she’s got me. You know I am.