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We got the text from #3 just after 2 a.m. this morning—Lulu passed away.
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| 6-5-11/ 4-27-20 |
She rarely barked, and cats were her friend.
She had the softest ears.
She’ll be deeply missed.
He brought her home to bury her.
Here #3 is with a body-shaped object in his truck, here we have a toddler-sized coffin and a very obvious grave, and the sheriff drives by—very, very slowly.
He comes by quite often lately, but he's never slowed down by my house.
Not to be morbid or gross, but Lulu was starting to smell.
It was a warm day—she was laying in a closed truck—and I was hoping like heck the sheriff did not stop to see what we were doing.
Things did not look good.
When my mom was in the nursing home, and they had a resident die, the aides always held their breath a bit and said, “Death comes in threes.”
Sure enough, within a month, they'd have lost three of their residents.
Agatha. Lulu—who else?
I'm not going to lie and say that I'm okay right now—I'm not.
I'm so depressed, I tear up at random times.
I'm just disgusted with life and so, so tired.
I know they were just animals to some, but to me, they were our babies—Agatha and Lulu—and it hurts to lose them.
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