On January 1st, 2024, we solemnly mark the fifth anniversary of Lumos, a cherished member of our furry family. The narrative that ensues, chronicling her departure and subsequent return, unfolds as a heartfelt tribute to our inaugural canine companion, as shared by my youngest daughter, May.

While most people welcomed the start of 2019 with fireworks and celebrations, the beginning of my year was marked by the loss of our family dog. I broke the news to Mom that Lumos had been struck by a car and had passed away on New Year’s Day. Her immediate reaction was a torrent of hysterical sobs.

“Lumos!” she wailed, dropping to her knees. “Lumos!”

I hurried home after Lumos was hit, accompanied by Dad, so we could bring her home in the car. Her body was too heavy to carry by hand. Despite being a beagle-dachshund mix, she weighed thirty-six pounds, as we had indulged her with many human-food scraps.

Mom was too distraught to drive to retrieve Lumos’s body, so I rushed, not even realizing until later that I had put on mismatched shoes. As I drove to where Dad had placed Lumos’s body, passing the one-story vinyl houses in the nearby neighborhood, I spotted Dad battling the winter gusts on the sidewalk.

Lost in my thoughts, I drove right past Dad without asking him to get in the car. Several seconds later, I realized my mistake and stopped for him to hop in. I rolled down the window and peered at him. Dad had cut across a yard to catch up to me. I was too numb to speak.

“The bank!” Dad yelled, gesturing for me to keep going. So, I continued driving.

When I got out of the car and saw Lumos’s lifeless body again, her golden fur shimmering under the bright streetlights, it felt as if every nerve and feeling in my body had shut down. I didn’t burst into tears like Mom or grimace like Dad when he moved our beloved pet’s body. I simply felt nothing, denying the reality of the situation. Maybe she’s still alive, I thought hopefully. But Lumos’s eyes remained still and unblinking, and she did not move a muscle. I put my head to her chest. I couldn’t hear a heartbeat.

Reflecting on this moment later, it felt as if I were one of those conspiracy theorists denying clear evidence to cling to false beliefs. Despite Lumos being undeniably, irrefutably dead, I clung to denial. My family followed the textbook stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Mom’s wails signaled the onset of depression in the coming weeks. I bargained and denied. Dad's clenched jaw was the only sign of his anger as he accepted Lumos’s death, reacting afterward with a cold, detached professionalism.

Dad placed Lumos into a plastic bin the same way he had carried her off the road, lifting her by the legs and gently settling her into the container. He climbed into the passenger seat, and we drove home in silence.

As we pulled into the garage, Mom was waiting for us. She had turned on the garage lights and was still sobbing.

“Where is Lumos?” she demanded through her tears as soon as I exited the car.

Dad grabbed the plastic storage container and emptied it on the garage floor. Mom took one look at Lumos’s lifeless body and started crying again, calling out Lumos’s name repeatedly. She blamed herself for not walking Lumos. As Mom observed Lumos, her trauma deepened upon realizing that Lumos’s head was against the container wall. She sobbed harder. Between her sobs, she murmured, “Corpse abuse!” and “How could you cut off Lumos’s breath like this?” Mom carefully transferred Lumos to a cardboard platform bed, where she gently laid Lumos flat in a comfortable position. She wiped off Lumos’s blood, placed a stack of soft tissue papers underneath Lumos’s head, and kept checking Lumos’s heartbeat and body temperature.

“You keep crying like that, and the neighbors will call the police,” Dad said.

Mom ignored him and continued crying. Dad and I left the garage. We could still hear Mom’s wailing as we entered the living room, several rooms and walls away from the garage. Dad picked up his laptop and resumed typing away, likely getting back to work on his research papers. I grabbed my phone and typed in: Can a dog still be alive after being hit by a car?

The search yielded 127,000,000 results.

I clicked the first several links. Dogs hit by a car often die before they make it to their ride or before they reach the veterinary hospital. But I was determined not to give up.

I refined my search: Dog hit by car bleeding from mouth.

The results numbered 7,380,000.

“It’s less common,” I told myself. “There’s a chance.”

I kept reading, kept refining searches, until I found a sliver of hope. One site claimed that even though a dog’s mouth was bleeding, the heart wasn’t beating, and the eyes weren’t blinking, there was a chance that the dog could still be alive. The dog could just be in a late stage of shock.

I opened the garage door as slowly and quietly as I could. “Mom?” I said. I shared what I had learned.

Mom had covered Lumos’s body with a blanket, as if Lumos was peacefully sleeping. She surrounded Lumos with her favorite plush snake and alien toys, lit a candle by Lumos’s side, and prayed for God to take Lumos’s soul to Heaven.

After hearing what I said, Mom’s expression did not change. “Lumos is gone, May,” she said shortly. “She’s so cold. No heartbeat.”

Just to be sure, I tried all my tactics to get Lumos’s eyes to move. I waved my hand across her face. I even pretended like I was going to poke her. No reaction. I called the emergency pet clinic in Greenville, but the woman who answered the phone agreed with Mom. “Usually when there’s no heartbeat or eye movement, the pet is gone,” she said. “But you can still bring in your dog to make sure, and a doctor will listen to your dog’s heartbeat with a stethoscope.”

As I continued to deny Lumos’s death, I explained to my parents the possibility of Lumos still being barely alive. The clinic could potentially resuscitate her. However, my parents firmly rejected the idea. They didn’t want to compound the grief by adding a pointless thousand-dollar fee on top of losing our beloved dog.

I couldn’t discern if Dad was upset or bothered, but either way, he retreated to the master bedroom and closed the door to distance himself from Mom’s ongoing cries. I sat by Mom’s side sporadically throughout the night, but eventually, she expressed the desire to be left alone with Lumos. Respecting her wish, I retreated to my room.

Mom and Lumos shared a unique bond. When she was alone at home, Lumos would follow her everywhere, her little paws pit-pat-pattering over the tile floors. During the holidays, Mom wanted to roast some rice cakes and sweet potatoes over the fire, a tradition from her childhood. Dad, however, objected to burning firewood inside the house. When Mom stayed in the garage tending the fire and roasting the food, Lumos was the only one who stayed by Mom’s side the entire time. During a hurricane, Mom made sure Lumos, Dad, and I sought shelter in the large closet stocked with food, water, and sleeping bags while she chose a smaller closet for herself, equipped with only a sleeping bag and some water. Surprisingly, Lumos opted to squeeze into the small closet, laying close beside Mom for comfort and companionship. On a trek down the Chimney Rock narrow staircases, Mom lagged behind, but Lumos refused to walk, waiting patiently even when Dad threatened to use the leash. Once, during a walk, an aggressive dog three times Lumos’s size approached Mom. Without hesitation, Lumos rushed to fight and block the dog from reaching Mom. During casual conversations with neighbors on walks, Lumos would affectionately place her two front paws on Mom’s shoes and stare at the neighbors. One of Lumos’s amusing habits was after completing her business, she would throw her hindquarters onto the lawn and slide them forward to ensure cleanliness. Additionally, whenever Mom lay on the sofa, Lumos would mimic her, adopting the exact same pose. Mom’s fondness for Lumos was immeasurable, marked by countless cherished moments.

I tried not to dwell too much on Lumos’s passing. I attempted to suppress the thought that her death might herald a flood of bad luck, drowning my family throughout 2019. I tried not to replay scenarios in my mind—what if we had returned home when Lumos wanted to stop walking to the nearby charter school, what if we had acted differently when the fireworks frightened Lumos, causing her to break free from the leash and dash towards the intersection—what ifs haunted my thoughts.

My contemplations kept me awake past midnight, then one in the morning, and then two. I ventured back to the garage to check on Mom. She had set up in the black SUV parked in the garage, bundled up in a small blanket on the driver’s seat. She explained that she wanted to ensure no cockroaches or ants approached anywhere near Lumos’s body.

Approaching Lumos’s body, I found no ants or cockroaches in sight. It felt like a small miracle, but I couldn’t shake a sense of ingratitude. My earlier search revealed that over 6,000,000 dogs and cats died in road accidents. Why did Lumos have to be one of them?

A few minutes later, I joined Mom in the car, occasionally glancing out the window to steal glimpses of Lumos’s motionless form.

The next morning, before deciding whether to cremate or bury Lumos’s body, Mom expressed a desire to have Lumos taxidermied so that we could continue to see her for the rest of our lives. Dad was on board with this idea. However, after consulting my older sister, she didn’t support the option of taxidermy for Lumos, citing both the expensive cost and concerns about its practicality. My sister added, “No one would be available locally to stuff Lumos. You will have to keep her body at home for days and then transport it to the taxidermist.”

Mom took a shower and then put on a black dress as if attending a funeral. At the animal clinic where Lumos used to see her vet, Mom requested for Lumos to be cremated alone, not alongside other dogs. She asked for a nice ash box to keep Lumos’s remains. Choking on her words, Mom sobbed uncontrollably as the nurses transported Lumos’s body away. She walked alongside them until she wasn’t allowed to go further into the special room. She broke down and sobbed harder but suddenly remembered something important: she raced to the car to retrieve Lumos’s plush snake and alien toys, wanting these to be cremated with Lumos.

For the next seven weeks, on each seventh day, Mom would prepare a spread of meat, sashimi, duck breast jerk, cheese, and milk. She would delicately arrange the treats, light candles, and extend an invitation to Lumos’s soul, recreating a ritual of remembrance. As Lumos savored the offerings, Mom would share heartfelt sentiments, expressing how wonderful, brave, and loyal Lumos had been, all while tenderly apologizing for that dreadful night. Each session was a poignant communion, blending memories and reverence.

In her prayers to God, Mom portrayed Lumos as a good dog, entering into a heartfelt bargain for her beloved pet’s well-being: “Please keep Lumos in Heaven as the angelic companion she earned, ensuring a happier and painless eternity. But if that celestial fate eludes her, grant her a chance to reincarnate into the life of Meghan and Prince Harry’s child in England, ensuring a more favorable human existence. Should royalty be unavailable, guide her spirit to a loving and caring family. And if human life is not within reach, let her come back as a female puppy, carrying Lumos’s distinctive appearance of Beagle and Dachshund. May YOU guide us to her in this new form, completing our hearts once more.”

Mom, a devoted keeper of Lumos’s memory, carried Lumos’s ashes in a shoulder bag during our weekend walks. Peculiar occurrences, as perceived by Mom, fueled her belief that Lumos’s spirit was a constant companion. Dogs, both small and large, hailing from the neighborhood and beyond, would approach Mom and settle by her side, seemingly seeking her affection. Even unfamiliar dogs displayed a curious attraction, pulling their owners across the street, as if magnetically drawn to Mom.

“I believe Lumos’s spirit is influencing these dogs, letting us know she is with us,” Mom would suggest. However, I reassured Mom that it could be that other dogs simply caught Lumos’s scent from the ashes and were hoping for treats, mistaking the fragrance for something delicious.

I expressed my desire to simply welcome a new puppy into our lives and move forward, but Mom was resolute. “If we are going to have another dog, it has to be Lumos’s reincarnation—a female dog with Lumos’s appearance from the same place where we got Lumos,” she insisted. Continuing, she shared that Lumos’s soul would be available for reincarnation after 49 days of her death, pinpointing February 18th as the earliest day Lumos could be reborn.

“Typically, puppies become available for adoption at three months old. Since February has only 28 days, the earliest date for adopting Lumos’s reincarnation would be May 20th,” Mom concluded, setting a specific timeline for the hopeful arrival of Lumos’s successor.

“You're making it seem impossible for us to ever get another dog,” I protested. “Plus, Lumos was a mix of Beagle and Dachshund, and Dachshund breeds can be a bit stinky. I was thinking more along the lines of getting a Golden Retriever.” I kept searching for a new Golden Retriever puppy, but Mom wouldn’t yield. She stuck with her words.

Time passed slowly, especially when I longed to play with my dog after a long day from school and work. About two months after Lumos’s soul became available for reincarnation, I started following Cause-N-Dog Rescue on their Facebook page. On Easter Sunday, someone spotted a litter of puppies in the woods and called the dog rescue, who in the next few days rescued three male puppies about two months old. The fourth puppy was in a deep cave, and after several attempts, the last puppy was rescued on day eight, and it was a girl. The mother dog was never seen. Like many of Cause-N-Dog Rescue’s fans, I was amazed at how that two-month-old girl puppy survived in the woods by herself for eight days. More amazing was that this litter could climb in and out of their pen and disappear during the day, returning at night.

On May 17th, upon discovering that someone had adopted the most adept pen-climbing puppy the day after the litter underwent neutering and spaying, I recognized that this marked my sole opportunity to have a dog again. Realizing the urgency, I promptly filled out the dog adoption application on the same night and requested Mom’s signature. She signed, and we were slated to pick up the puppy on May 20th.

However, when we encountered the puppy, Mom expressed disappointment, stating, “This puppy doesn’t look like Lumos at all.”

I countered, “Her fawn fur resembles Lumos’s fur. And today is May 20th, precisely three months after Lumos became available for reincarnation, just as you mentioned.” While cradling the new puppy, she attentively shifted her gaze between Mom and me, as if she could decipher Mom’s sentiments and grasp the essence of our conversation.

“How do you know the puppy is three months old?” Mom asked the dog rescuer.

“The vet estimated the litter was born on February 18th,” the dog rescuer said.

A smile graced Mom’s face.

We named the new puppy “Lumos II.” However, curiosity about Lumos II’s breed lingered. The dog rescuer and the vet speculated she was a mix of Husky and Labrador, a dog expert leaned towards Carolina Wild Dog, and her character mirrored that of a Carolina Wild Dog. Mom yearned for Lumos II to embody Lumos’s Beagle and Dachshund traits, while I harbored hopes for a hint of Golden Retriever. To satisfy our curiosity, we subjected her to two DNA tests. The results unveiled Lumos II as a blend of 18 different dog breeds, encompassing Beagle, Dachshund, and Golden Retriever. “Lumos II is truly a blessing!” Mom exclaimed.

Despite Lumos II bringing immense joy into our lives, she could never fill the void in Mom’s heart left by the original Lumos. On each holiday or special occasion, a poignant ritual unfolded as Mom lit candles and arranged a plate laden with Lumos’s favorite treats, inviting her departed soul to partake in the festive feast.

Intrigued, I questioned, “If Lumos II is a reincarnation of Lumos, should we not cease this ritual of offering food to her soul?”

“Just to be safe,” Mom responded, “in case only a part of Lumos’s soul embarked on the journey of reincarnation.”

As life led Mom to a different state for work, Lumos’s ash box became a constant companion on her journeys. Every return home during holidays or weekends brought Lumos’s ashes back with her, a tangible and cherished reminder of Lumos’s enduring presence that she couldn’t bear to leave unattended.

Reflecting on the years we were blessed with Lumos, I considered myself fortunate to have shared a part of my life with such a loving, protective, loyal, and joyous family member. Lumos earned a permanent place in our hearts, leaving an indelible mark that time could never erase.

The End

*To witness Lumos II’s incredible rescue in the woods by Cause-N-Dog Rescue, you can view the one-minute video by following this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_yVI7qZn2k

*Additionally, we’ve obtained the results of Lumos II’s DNA testing. Discovering her genetic makeup adds an intriguing layer to her story, highlighting the unique traits that make Lumos II a one-of-a-kind member of our family.