The adoption went smoothly, and Tim and I drove down from Kensington, Maryland, the following Saturday to pick Lola up. Erin met us outside her apartment building and walked the dog around the neighborhood one last time. In familiar territory, Lola was more confident and at ease. Around the back of the building was a large patch of English ivy that was apparently her favorite place. She bounded into it and rustled around playfully. On our way back up to Erin's apartment to sign the paperwork, she was let off leash and bounced up and down the corridors, behaving, well, like a dog. I began to feel optimistic about her adaptability to a new home. There was a form or two, the passing of a check, and she was ours. Erin said her goodbyes placidly and gave Lola a final hug. She'd done this before. Lola happily jumped into the car, and was excited enough to be going for a ride that she seemed not to notice her mom of the last two months didn’t come with us.
Thinking back to that trip home, I am struck by how little agency Lola had in making this huge change. Often when people decide on dogs to add to their family, they say things like "the dog picked them." What they are actually saying is that this particular dog engaged with them during the short time they were in their presence, rather than hiding in a corner - but Lola was a hider. She never would have joined our home if we had expected her to choose us. As a serious introvert, for so long, the only people I added to my circle of friends were ones who had the energy to get past my defenses, and I can remember many times in my life when someone was right in front of me, making it clear they wanted me to be there, but I turned tail and hid. It took me years to realize that, although engaging with people brought the risk of pain and rejection, the lost potential was far worse.
As we pulled into the driveway, Lola shifted into a wary mode. The fun part was over, and there were strangers around. Tim's mom Donna, and friend Brian, greeted us. They were all smiles and high-pitched voices, but upon seeing Brian, Lola looked like she wanted to grow a turtle shell and suck herself up inside. He was one of the sweetest guys you could meet, but he used to ride with a biker gang and looked the part. He was in excess of 300 pounds, and had long salt-and-pepper hair (heavy on the salt) with an aggressively thick matching beard. Lola found the furthest location she could reach in the opposite direction of Brian and stayed there. Disappointed, but trying not to show it, he gave up trying to pet her, and we parted ways.
Once inside, Donna set about making some dinner while we attempted to acclimate Lola, but she lay down right against the back door in the kitchen and refused to budge. We spent some time trying to coax her out with treats and squeaky toys, but she would not be moved; although she did not seem distressed. She was clearly quietly studying us. Reaching out to pat her head, we succinctly absorbed more of her unhappy backstory.
She flinched.
Of course she did.
Fucking assholes.
Later on when Tim felt the dog needed to be walked, he went alone with her to the nearby park. He brought with him the fifty-foot lead we had bought since the yard wasn't fenced in yet. It was near sunset by that time and mostly empty, so Tim led her out onto the baseball diamond. As soon as her feet hit the dirt, Lola jolted with excitement, ran the lead out to its limit, and kicked up a joyful dust devil around him. Man, she was fast! Watching the blur of her legs, Tim was thrilled that he had found something to make her forget whatever horrors she was imagining we had planned for her back at the house.
Once inside again, Lola returned to her spot by the door. We decided to give her space, and turned our attention to the television. Weekday evenings we all watched Jeopardy together and much of the rest of the time was spent on Donna’s favorite channel, PBS. We probably had on something like Are You Being Served? when the laughing caught Lola’s attention and she crept her way out of the kitchen with her ears sticking straight up. When we noticed her, she retreated, despite our vocal encouragement.
I have never seen such range of motion on a dog's ears. They went from flopped over, not quite flat to her head, all the way up to a full stand. In her default relaxed state, they generally pointed out to the sides and rotated like radar while she listened to her surroundings. Once Lola had built up her repertoire of vocabulary she understood, we got a great deal of entertainment from the phrase "do you wanna..." which most dogs respond to with the classic head-tilt and ear-raise while they wait to hear what follows. With her, the ear-raise was so pronounced, it could be wings flapping.
Tim and I had recently moved out of our apartment in the city and were holed up in Donna’s basement while we house-hunted. I was self-employed and working from an office on the first floor during the day, making it easy for me to deal with the new dog. Naturally, I assumed I would get a head start on the bonding process, but circumstances had decided I was going to be their bitch, and Lola was the pawn in their perverse game to undermine me.
She slept calmly enough through the night, and since she was already housebroken, we had no worries there. The next morning, I spotted Walker, our neighbor across the street, sucking down a cigarette on her front porch, so I arranged a meeting. Lola was being playful and tugging on her nylon leash with her mouth once we were outside, and Walker was delighted with her. "Oh those ears!" she cried, as so many people would upon first meeting Lola, and joked that she would look great with big gold pirate hoops dangling from them. As I chatted with Walker, Lola continued to fuss with her leash, but I didn't pick up on what she was actually doing. In about a minute, she had bitten right through it.
She immediately put herself out of my reach, and wouldn't let me approach her. As I called to her and tried to draw her toward the house, she set off in the opposite direction - toward the park she had loved so much the night before. I got the hint quickly, but I didn't want her to continue on her own. Between us and the park was Plyers Mill Road, a through street that often has people driving way over the speed limit, and lots of parked cars to hurt visibility. I began to panic. Less than twenty-four hours had gone by since we got this new dog and she was going to get killed!
I shouted to Walker to tell Tim what was happening and tried to get between Lola and the road, but she simply cut a wider path. I managed to reach it at the same time she did, a good distance further down the block. Hoping I could stop traffic, I whipped my head left and right.
No one was coming. It was still early on a Sunday morning - not even church time yet. I released the breath I hadn't noticed I was holding, and ran across the street with her. She went straight to the ball field, where she encountered a few other dog owners all running their pets off-leash. Lola was happy to see the other dogs, and romped with them a bit, while I remained intent on regaining control. Distracted, she allowed me to get near enough to start petting her, and settled down. Then I slipped my fingers around her collar.
Her reaction was that of an animal that knew it was about to die. The high-pitched squealing, the desperate lunging and twisting to break my hold. Not knowing if she would put herself into danger again, I didn't want to let go. My index finger rotated beyond its happy place and pain shot up my arm. It had been too scary getting this far. I just couldn't let go.
When it became clear to Lola that the murder was not going to happen, she relaxed again, and settled into the grass, panting. As I tried to reassure her, the presence of the other dog owners around me - and the sudden silencing of their conversation - seeped into my awareness. One guy gave a short whistle and his obedient little shit came trotting up to receive a treat. “Now that’s how you train a dog,” he said. I wanted to ask Mr. Judgment if he had also just gotten his dog yesterday from the shelter after she had lived for two years on a six foot lead outside the home of people who’s only physical contact with her was a slap, but I didn’t. I don’t confront. I just pushed all the blood I had into my face.
I spotted Tim and Donna emerging from a car at the side of the park and managed to scoop Lola up in my arms. She remained quiet, but by the time we got home, it was clear that she wanted nothing to do with me. I backed off and iced my sprain. For much of that week, in the evenings, she lay in the dining room and watched us, as long as I didn't approach her. During the day, she continued to keep to her spot while I worked.
As the weekend neared, I was in the home office when I heard a crash from the living room. I rushed in to find Lola on one of the armchairs that was in front of the big picture window. Her curiosity had finally exceeded her fear and she had been trying to see outside. Her front paws were on the table in between the chairs, and Donna's lamp that had been on that table was now on the hardwood floor, redesigned into a random smattering of shattered glass. Honestly, it had never looked better.
Lola was already looking toward the door as I entered the room, eyes quizzical and ears straight up. Afraid to react in any way that would scare her, I found myself just saying “Oh, Lola!” in a tone of voice that hopefully said “What happened? I hope you’re ok.” I was not successful. “Aawrrrff” she moaned in the most human noise I’ve ever heard a dog make - part howl, part sigh of abject frustration. Down from the chair. Back to the kitchen door. Strike two.
In the meantime, Tim and Lola were making friends. After work, he would take her to run around the ball fields, let her loose in the caged tennis courts, and teach her how to play. He would get down on all fours and try to roughhouse, grabbing at her paws and lightly swatting at her snout, dropping his head to the floor and barking. At first she would only give that stiff sideways gaze that people do when they are forced to sit next to a crazy person on the bus, but after a few minutes her instincts started to kick in; or maybe he awoke memories of her first (probably happy) weeks when she was able to bite and swat and roll around on the ground with her siblings, all under the guidance of corrective nips from her mom. She began to paw at him, gently at first, then with more energy, while her tail made slow, tentative circles in the air.
Wanting to see some progress along the lines that Tim had, late one gorgeous October afternoon I took Lola out to the park on her new (chain) leash and headed for the tennis courts. Once there, I released her and watched her run among the light dusting of early fall leaves. She whizzed along the fence and took long jumps over the painted lines, as if they were hurdles. After she tired, I prepared to go home, but found myself the victim of my own optimism. She still wouldn’t let me near her. Quietly, slowly, I tried to approach her with the leash but she would not have it. I was now stranded, pre-cellphone and the sun starting to dip below the tree line. For the second time in a week, my chest was tightening with panic over my incompetence. Tim and Donna would be getting home before long and we wouldn’t be there. No one knew where we were. What was I going to do?
In between my attempts to get near Lola she would lay down and watch me - calmly, patiently, front legs pointing straight toward me with her head down on the ground. After a few tries I found the closest I could approach without her getting up again was about thirty feet. At this distance, I decided to attempt a new tactic, and I duplicated her pose as best I could, getting my face as low as possible. Cooing reassurances the whole time, I began to inch my way toward her, slowly closing the gap. Lola’s eyes remained fixed on me, but she did not get up. After I had managed to cover the distance of a couple feet, I saw her back paws tighten and flex. I braced myself for what I thought would be another retreat, but then, against all my expectations, and without ever rising from the ground, she began to echo my movements.
Me a few inches. Her a few inches.
Me a few inches. Her a few inches.
Trading with each other our small advances.
We eventually met halfway.
Coming up next: Heartbeats