My friends warned me—rescuing a dog can be a gamble. But I didn’t care. On Super Bowl Sunday in March 2012, I found Luke (then called Ziggy) on a rescue site. One look into his brown eyes and I just knew—he was mine. I adopted him a few days later, learning he’d been traded and kept in a crate in someone’s garage in California. He was 2 years old.
When we brought him home, he was terrified. He’d never had the chance to bond with anyone, and it left deep scars. But slowly, he began to trust me. He warmed up to our family, though always a little wary of men. Still, over time, he came out of his shell—and I know he had a good life with us.
Somehow, this little dog stole my heart. For 13 years, he was part of our family. We bonded as deeply as we could, given where he started.
About six months ago, Luke was diagnosed with Cushing’s disease, and things began to decline. He lost his hearing, developed glaucoma and became incontinent. When his quality of life worsened, I made the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make—and let him go.
I miss him every single day. I still expect to see him when I walk through the door.
Rest in peace, little guy. We loved you so much.
OREGON STATE UNIVERSITY
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