Lulu was technically our daughter’s Vietnamese potbellied pig, but she spent lots of time with us. Ever since I’d had a heart attack 18 months before I didn’t like being alone, so I was happy to have Lulu around when my husband went fishing.
Early on one of those mornings, I felt a familiar pain in my chest. I couldn’t even get to the phone. “Help!” I cried. It was a holiday weekend. Was anyone around?
Lulu ran to me, squealing. Then she ran out of the bedroom. Lord, she’s as helpless as me.
After what seemed like an eternity, I heard someone at the door. “Lady, your pig is in the road!” a man called. “I almost ran over her with my truck!”
“Call an ambulance!” I cried.
My husband met me at the hospital, where I stayed under observation for several days.
When we returned home, my neighbor greeted us. “Nobody heard you yell,” he said. “I saw Lulu tear out of the doggie door and play dead in the road. I went out to shoo her back inside. The truck driver beat me to your door.”
Yes, Lulu was technically my daughter’s potbellied pig. But she was 100 percent my angel.
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