The year was 2012. As my 44th birthday approached, I asked the universe for a dog – a big dog, female, short-haired, deep voice, sweet. The kids and I crowded around the computer. Petfinder showed us a local shelter filled with dogs in need, mostly pit mixes . . . and Lu. She stared back at us, all eleven pounds of her, a jet black snout, ginger fur.

We waited an eternal three weeks, and with incredible luck (and a little cajoling on my part, birthday notwithstanding) we picked her up to the day. Happy Birthday to me, more than I could ever imagine.

She was a shocking 28lbs on pick-up day. When they brought her out, I actually rebuffed for a second asking, “where’s the puppy?” Her now long body waggled as we walked to the car. Half way home, she was asleep. Great in the car, check. Mellow, check.

The first night, however, was a test of wills. When it was time for her to go in her crate after a brief out and about with her new family, she balked, or rather barked. I was firm. She barked more. I basically barked back and she fled to my bedroom and hid under the bed. Once we got her in the crate, she barked some more and my soon-to-be-ex gave me the hairy eyeball. The kids went to bed, and I worried that I had erred and slept very little.

I didn’t know what she was trying to tell me, but she wasted little time letting me know she was smart, sweet, ridiculous, and mine. Standing at breakfast, all ears and paws, and a tail reaching to the floor, I began to fall in love. We hid treats around the house, she learned her toys by name, she snuffled out the kids from under blankets while watching tv, giggling all around.

When my relationship ended, with all the complexities of the impossible decision, Lu and I headed west. We bought a pick-up truck (because we were heart broke and hitting the road) and drove across the country.

We began the ritual of she being allowed to sleep on the bed, starting in hotels and later ending with me buying us a California king. We ate fast food together, her sweet whiskery lips delicately taking chicken nuggets from my fingers from the back seat. She chewed on the frame of my three thousand dollar mountain bike, because it was there. We played at all the rest stops, found railroad tracks and forest roads to wander on. We visited friends in Columbus, O-hi and Laramie Wyoming. We licked the salt flats in Nevada and eventually made our way to the pacific northwest where less than a year old she gracefully took 3 flights in the belly of smaller and smaller planes to land in Dillingham Alaska where off leash life began that summer.

Among many of her nicknames, muddy mudfest, stinky butt, boo-boo face, bunny, luka-lu, I have to say wild beast was less of a namesake and more of who she(we) is/are. She ran free, romped in mud ruts, bounced on the tundra, hiked the bare mountain; it was me and she. The best healer for a broken heart, and teacher for life. Joy. Wildness. Naps. Sweetness. Peacefulness. Playfulness. Love.

We wandered from New York City to Dillingham Alaska to Brattleboro Vermont to Portland Oregon to Seattle Washington to Occidental California to Fort Bragg California to Albion California to Port Townsend Washington, where we finally bought her a house with no stairs, a fire stove and lots of land. She was well-traveled and well-loved. Her pack is huge and if you’re reading this, you know who you are.

Luka loved a stick, only second to a ball. She hiked 44 miles carrying her own dog pack and pulled me up and over a1,256 foot snowy pass, before dancing around me as I glissaded down the other side. She was part polar bear, getting in every bank of snow and every body of water available, no matter the season. She loved a muddy wash, and I can handily say her favorite was a rut in Alaska where she would run from one muddy end to the other every day we were there the summer of 2013. She warned me off a bear (I think) on a balding mountain and told me in no uncertain terms, she did not like the tippy-ness of a canoe. She tolerated the paddle board but would rather be swimming. In fact, she did many things for me that she wouldn’t have chosen, the bucket of a large e-bike being her last.

As a pup she could hardly resist a squirrel. Beyond that, she was the Ferdinand of dogs. She had cats, she sat on porches with me watching and listening to birds. She saw her first porcupine at a safe distance in the outback of AK. Once we found her standing with her comparably massive self and amazingly long snout gently sniffing at a terrified baby possum hissing at her as she stood looking. She alerted me to an Elk and doe on a backpacking trip by sitting up and staring like a silent sentinel (just over a year old). In fact, when I see her that day in my minds eye, I could see the nobility in her, not just in that moment, but thousands more as we went along our life together.

She was a bed hog of the best sort. Early on when it was just the two of us, she (being a leaner) was warm and snuggly, and I often woke with either with her face next to mine or a big furry foot extended sweetly up under my nose.

Her bark was a deep warning if you didn’t know her and I always felt safe with her. I have no idea if she’d ever defend, but she never had to. Hilariously, we (the humans) came to know that calling out ‘helloooo’ was the equivalent of a doorbell and resulted in vocal ferocity and often used that to inspire Luka to scare the deer off any proximity to the plants near the house we prefer they don’t eat. Though she was not a howler, once we played her a video of a Husky pup being taught to howl by its Momma and after two rounds, Luka joined in for two long sonorous calls I’ll never forget. She never fell for that trick again, but it was a glorious song from my sweet beast.

Perhaps one of the things I loved most about Lu was one of the most ordinary. When I would arrive home from work, she would run to greet me. Winding around me, shoving and head butting, smelling me – where I’d been and if I had anything good smelling for her. As a young dog, a whole body waggle would greet me from the porch before I entered the yard. In these last weeks, even then, she would either come be pet, sniff out the goods and lead me back in the house or sometimes just stand on the porch and wiggle until I arrived. She would ask to be let out into cold temps and wait into the dark early hours, often refusing to come in until I arrived.

I miss everything about her. I miss being greeted. I miss her coming to the bed to nudge me out. I miss her expectation and efficiency of licking the plates and bowls after meals. I miss her staring at me as I shuffle across a dark kitchen to make tea, but was always encouraged to (and did) make her a fire first. I miss watching her roll onto her back in the grass, esp when chewing a stick. I miss porch sitting with her. I miss being stared at so intensely that I’m convinced she is a.) the best human trainer in the world and b.) she knows all the secrets of the universe. I miss her big sweet head in my lap as we three sat on the couch watching a show. I especially miss her shoving further and further across to be not only in my lap but now partially in Laura’s. I miss the way she would fall asleep on the couch and her head would lift the moment she heard the spoon scrape the bottom of the ice cream container. I miss feeding her chicken off the bone in the kitchen, and how gentle she could be even when ravenous. I miss her singing at the beach, insistent we throw a stick or stone. I miss kicking a ball and watching the worlds best dog goalie. I miss how she would put her paw on my foot when she wanted something I had. I miss the days long ago when she would jump back on the bed in the morning, wrestle with me making amazingly scary growling noises, would stop when I said ‘wait’ and launch off the bed like a dog rocket when I’d say “lets go”. I miss how saying the words “let me get my pants” was code for going for a walk. I miss the smell of her head, the groan she made when scratching her ear, the funny noises she made in her sleep and her gentle snore that signaled I could fall asleep.

To be loved by a dog is complete.

When I fell head over heels and completely in love, Luka claimed her other human. Laura became loved twice over. I didn’t know someone could love Lu like I did. Laura was the treat bringer, the stick-stander-on-er, the other person she claimed and ran to greet. Laura could smother Luka with kisses, her curls falling all over Lu’s face and Lu let her. Laura plucked every last bit of meat from a whole chicken to feed our aging girl, mixed with green beans and cottage cheese and rice, heated just a bit, just like Lu liked it. Laura knew Lu. We were a happy pack.

Laura and I watched Luka slow down, gracefully, quietly, unassumingly. She had a small infection or two this summer, she started to reject her long loved food, she walked less and we wondered about age versus illness. Early on we agreed we wouldn’t do anything unnecessary to prolong her life. In the end, we made a trip to the local(ish) emergency vet this past Sunday and came to know enough to suspect cancer. We minimized tests and honored her time here, letting her transition to her next iteration. We sat in the exam room on the floor with her for a long time telling her the stories of her life, as we knew her. Though it was hard for her to be comfortable, it was the most relaxed she looked before she left. I will never forget Luka licking 1/2 and 1/2 from tiny creamer containers – with enthusiasm – from Laura’s hand not long before she left us. Lu to the end, loved to the end and beyond.

The emptiness is fresh, but the sorrow is simply love without a place to go (thanks Betty). I did my best to choose the best photos to share. They’re set in galleries over the eras of her life; click on a photo and it will open the gallery. There’s probably too many, but honestly, there aren’t enough. You know what I mean.

We would like to use the comment section for the traditional Irish wake. If you have a story to tell about Luka, kindly share it with us all. It would mean the world to us.