photograph by anna traverse
Lily Bear in Overton Park
As autumn began, Lily Bear — forager, hiker, earth-sniffer, cat-chaser, truck-barker, big floofer, dog of my heart — left this earth. She was 9 years old, we think, give or take. For the last 7 of those years, I got to be her human. She was my best friend, my adventure buddy, my protector. She came to me nervous and traumatized from a difficult situation, and we learned together how to be braver and bolder. I will miss her forever, and love her longer.
I met Lily in a Waffle House parking lot on a bright July afternoon in 2017. I had first seen her in photographs on my laptop screen as I scrolled a dog-adoption site late one night — her big, deep-dark eyes, her golden caterpillar eyebrows, the way she seemed to be looking straight back at me. She was being fostered on the far side of Tennessee, bordering Virginia — a logistical hurdle — and still an apartment-dweller then, I wasn’t convinced I was ready for a dog. But her licorice jelly-bean eyes, her gold-tipped ears: I looked at her, and knew. She was my dog; I was her human.
She did not approve of people coming to the door, and she told them so. She never, ever hurt anyone, but if she wasn’t so sure about you, she might show you all her teeth. Just so you’d know.
To love a dog is to love a mystery. Lily was my shadow, and I was hers; I spent more time with her than I have with any human in my adult life, even more so since the pandemic. But there was so much she could never tell me. I have some inkling of what her life was like before we met, but only some. I know the person who had charge of her before she was rescued didn’t want her, treated her poorly. I don’t know where she was born, or what she looked like as a puppy, or who her parents were. She was flustered around big, diesel-engine trucks, though she couldn’t tell me why, rearing up to warn them off and satisfied when they left. She did not approve of people coming to the door, and she told them so. She never, ever hurt anyone, but if she wasn’t so sure about you, she might show you all her teeth. Just so you’d know. Rrrrr.
In June, Lily started limping while on a walk around the neighborhood, ginger about stepping down on her front left leg. I called the vet the next morning, took her in to be examined. She was diagnosed with tendinitis in her elbow, given meds, and we saw some mild improvement, but not enough. She was reexamined, given different meds. Still struggling with the leg, she was referred to the vet hospital at Mississippi State in July, and the doctor who examined her there broke the news to us. It wasn’t tendinitis, but an osteosarcoma that had eaten away the elbow and metastasized to her lungs. By the time she had started limping, it was already too late. My girl, stoic beyond reason. With aggressive treatment, including an amputation and chemotherapy, we could buy her possibly a year, probably less. But the treatment would be grueling, and she wasn’t a good candidate for amputation, thanks to arthritis in her hips. We spent six heartbreaking, heart-filling weeks with her. On a sunny morning in October, we said goodbye to Lily at home.
photograph by jack kenner
Lily Bear at Jerry’s Sno-Cones, July 2019
If you’ve been reading this magazine for a while, you’ve met Lily. She was on our cover once — the only dog to be a cover model for Memphis Magazine — pictured in the act of taking down a rainbow sno-cone from the original Jerry’s. (So many sno-cones were sacrificed that day.) On a lark, I suggested we include her in our yearly Who’s Who list among all the local notables, arguing that she was a very notable dog; my colleagues agreed (??) and she was included in the list for several years in a row, directly in between the head of the FedEx St. Jude Championship and Henry Turley. Lily also authored several pieces for us — I confess I was her scribe, but she earned her byline — about her life and times. She was a lady of many talents.
Lily was a dog, but like all dogs who are loved the way they should be, she was also family. I always knew I would struggle when she left, and I have. As I write this, more than a month has passed, and it still feels so strange to walk downstairs in the morning and not shuffle immediately to the back door to let the dog outside. It’s strange to come home from work or errands and not be greeted at the door with wags and twirls.
I doubted initially whether I would write about losing Lily in this space — I’m still so sad, and the sadness feels so personal. But so many of us are dealing with one issue or another that may feel too sad, too personal to share, and here’s the thing: When we talk about those things, the clouds lift just a little. Not a single person I’ve told about Lily has responded coldly or dismissively. People may not be quite as easy to love as dogs, but the folks I’ve surrounded myself with are almost there.
