Part 1 / Part 2
Early in the morning on April 10, 2010, my dog Lola died. Of all the heartbeats that have sounded off in my vicinity, hers was the closest to me that has ever stopped; so by default she has remained at the center of any thoughts I expend in the direction of death. It’s not something I dwell on, but it periodically reminds me to take a self-assessment of where I am in my life and the world, as I think any major life change does. Death is the most extreme life change there is - an almost absurdly obvious observation - but one easily taken for granted until it arrives on your doorstep. Whether it takes its time breaking in, or has the skeleton key and sneaks up behind you, the end result is the same.
In the office the following week, I was approached by a coworker with whom I normally tried to avoid talking; you know, the guy who never seems to know when to shut up, offering unwanted and abrasive opinions, or sharing vivid descriptions of his medical procedures despite the uncomfortable disinterest emanating from his trapped coworkers faces. With a tone so obviously sincere that it startled me, he offered his condolences. I don’t know how he came to hear about my loss so quickly, as I did not share it widely, but instead of pulling the sideways-look-while-starting-to-type-again move that usually forced an end to our one-sided chats, I thanked him just as sincerely.
He enthused about dogs in general, and his own dogs, and about how much a part of the family they are. It was the first thing he had shared, as far as I can remember, that I had in common with him - and he had shared a lot. Ultimately, he got around to telling me about some celebrity or politician (I can’t remember which) who had earned his deeper respect for saying that when he loses a pet, he writes their biography. It helps him process the loss and makes him feel better. I was honestly taken by surprise at how much I liked the idea, and thought that I might do it myself. As a side effect to this conversation, I was left with a greater appreciation for people who have no social filter. They let all the good stuff through too.
So now, after quite some time, I am finally getting around to taking that advice. I’ve long since “gotten over” Lola’s passing and am enjoying my new dog Bella, who has assumed the mantle of distracting me from everything that’s shitty about the world; but Lola will forever be paired in my memories with the very specific period in my life when I had fully embraced adulthood. I had started a long term relationship, stayed at a job for more than a year, bought a house, and especially, I had learned to set aside enough of my self-absorption to take on the responsibility of keeping another heart beating.
We met her on a Sunday down in Adams Morgan, where a friend of ours ran a furniture store called Miss Pixie’s. We were standing at the back of the store chatting with Pixie (yes, that's her name) when Tim, my ex, had his attention drawn to a woman studying the shop windows with a dog in tow. He cut the conversation off mid-stream, saying he had to meet this dog. Both Tim and I love dogs, but I was surprised by his eagerness. I hadn’t noticed the dog and never go out of my way to engage with strangers' pets.
As he went outside, the dog quickly moved behind her owner and insisted on keeping some distance between herself and Tim, moving continuously from behind her legs to under the bench outside, and so on, while Tim managed to get some unwanted pats in. The owner, whose name I don’t remember - I’ll call her Erin - told us that her name was Lola, and that she was up for adoption.
I’m sure Tim gave an excited gasp, like a little kid who just found out they were going out for ice cream. Erin had a dog of her own, and fostered dogs from the Washington Humane Society to save them from euthanasia. Lola, with her timidity, was not getting any admirers. Erin had taken her in, making her the first person I have to to thank for bringing Lola into my life. Tim connected with Lola immediately, at first sight, and knew she had to be his dog. He couldn’t explain himself beyond that, and I didn’t really need him to. Tim makes up his mind quickly and changes it rarely.
We learned from Erin that Lola had been turned in voluntarily to the shelter by her previous owners. She was, according to them, about two years old and “some sort of terrier.” She was over fifty pounds at the time, so we assumed she was mixed with something bigger. They had admitted to keeping her on a six-foot leash in the backyard for all her known life, a snippet of information that made me hate them instantaneously and with a passion reserved for Hitler and drivers who don’t go when they get a green turn arrow. Her name had been Brownie, an odd choice, we thought, for a blonde dog with a reddish undercoat. Erin said she just looked like a Lola to her, and we agreed.
We exchanged contact information with Erin and went home. We looked up Lola at the shelter web page, and her picture told a lot of the story: a background of dirt and chain link, a hand emerging from out of frame to hold her in place, ears back, eyes dejected, and head twisted round to keep her "tormentor" in sight. It was the perfect heartbreaking shelter picture, maxed out on pathos. She was in a foster home now, so out of danger, but there were always more dogs to save. A call from Erin laid on the pressure. There was another dog, named Happy, who was approaching his expiration date. She couldn’t take a third dog in her apartment.
Photo by Washington Humane Society, 1999
I was hesitant, as always.
Dogs are a big responsibility.
Tim’s mind was made up.
I didn’t argue.
This makes Tim the second person I have to thank for bringing Lola into my life. The inertia of my daily routine is so strong that I take a long time to make changes to it, but Tim can turn on a dime. I don’t know how long it would have taken me to get a dog on my own. Tim has had that enlarging effect on my life in general. His outgoing personality and enthusiasm have made my world bigger, with more friends and experiences than I would have gotten on my own. Despite the recent dissolution of our relationship after twenty years, and my ongoing resentment at him for leaving, I still feel like I’ve gained more than I’ve lost.
As I write this, I find my thoughts drifting to myself more than I expected. How do I feel? How has Lola affected my life? I guess it's natural, and I never asked Lola what she was thinking. OK, well I did, but I think you know how successful that was. Our pets, and maybe dogs especially, are mirrors of us, really. When we're happy, they're happy, and likewise for the negatives. When we take them out in public, they present a version of ourselves to the world. Dogs that are badly behaved, unhappy, or unhealthy draw disapproving side-eye from our neighbors; and when people say my dogs are sweet or friendly, I have no problem taking credit for it.
With all due respect to my relatives who have passed on, to Tim, to the bullies who made me miserable in junior high, and to all the people who have suffered more than I have, losing Lola is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, so I'm going to indulge myself with a little introspection. Not too much, I hope.
Coming up next: "The First Week"