We were four siblings, all born within five years, and when I was in elementary school, our mother got us a dog. She named her Missy Lum Lum. She had beagle-like ears, the long body of a dachshund, short, stubby legs, and stood about a foot high at the shoulder. She was small but full of energy, and wherever I went, she followed. Missy Lum Lum was smart, too. If we hopped fences while playing in the neighborhood, she would never be left behind—she’d always find a way around to rejoin us.

In the schoolyard baseball field, Miss Lum Lum, would sit at second base. Whenever the ball came near her, she'd snatch it and bring it over to one of us kids. In her own way, she played baseball with us.

One thing that always tugged at me, though, was saying goodbye to her in the mornings before school. We lived right across the street from the schoolyard, and every day, when I left to walk over, she would try to follow me. I had to be firm, sometimes raising my voice, telling her to “go home.” It felt like a small betrayal when she would hesitate, crouch down, and slowly turn around. But without fail, when recess bell rang, there she would be, looking for me from the school yard fence—loyal and full of love.

I was old enough to save a little money, I bought my mother a bottle of Jergens hand lotion for her birthday. I had big plans to surprise her, so I hid the bottle carefully. But the day of the celebration, Missy Lum Lum, tail wagging and shaking with excitement, came into the room proudly holding the bottle of lotion in her mouth, presenting it to my mother as if it were her own gift. I was furious in the moment—my surprise was ruined! But the laughter that followed and my mom's joy softened my anger quickly. I couldn’t stay mad at Missy Lum Lum for long.

Later, things took a sad turn. We were moving to a new place that did not allow dogs, and my mother told us we had to find Missy Lum Lum a new home. When the day came, I remember standing there as the car drove off, watching her little face through the rear window, and feeling the weight of saying goodbye. My younger sister was crying, and I was too heartbroken to speak. That was the last time we saw her.

Looking back, moments like these seemed so sad and heavy at the time. But now, when I think of Missy Lum Lum, I find myself smiling. What once brought sadness has become a warm memory—a reminder of her loyalty, her playful nature, and even that ruined birthday surprise. It's funny how something that seemed upsetting when you’re young can later be a fond memory you cherish. Missy Lum Lum may be gone, but she left me with stories that will always make me smile.