Loving and Losing Lolita
A love story by Diane Andreoni
“Before you get a dog, you can’t quite imagine what living with one might be like; afterward, you can’t imagine living any other way.”
-Caroline Knapp-
When I was a kid I never had a dog. My family did have a pet kitten for a while that my dad found in our house’s window well. My brothers and sisters and I named him, Lido, after my father. He was so cute and tiny. His black fur coat had white blotches on it that looked like they were slopped on with paint. Lido loved taking catnaps underneath our family’s Buick Station Wagon; and then, on one tragic summer day, Lido accidentally ran over Lido, and our little kitten was suddenly dead. We were devastated. As young kids, it was our first experience with death. My dad felt awful. My mom told us it wasn’t dad’s fault; it was an accident and we shouldn’t blame him for Lido’s death. My parents organized a funeral ceremony in memory of our sweet kitten and we buried him in our backyard. Needless to say, we did not have any more pets after that family tragedy.
I didn’t have a dog as an adult either, mostly because they scared me. I once had this mean neighbor who kept his barking Rottweiler chained up outside his house. One day, as I was jogging by, he let his dog loose and it ran after me and bit me on my butt. Ouch! I also thought dogs were kind of dirty, so when my friends’ dogs got excited and jumped up on me, licking and slobbering all over my face and hands, I would freak out and immediately look for a bathroom to clean myself up in. I was even grossed out by those “dog poop people,” who stuck their hands in small plastic bags, turned them inside out and picked up their pooch’s poop. Yuck! I thought that was disgusting. I never imagined that one day I would be one of “them.”
Newly divorced, my life, and pet status, soon changed. I was a forty-six year old single woman living in a cool, urban loft. With a busy career, I was also attending night school to finish my art degree, and had an active social life. But I was lonely. And I wasn’t sleeping well, often finding myself waking up in the middle of the night, anxious about my future, and feeling sad about my divorce. My friends were all supportive. I looked to them to help me navigate the city life. A lot of them were single, too, and had a pet dog. They suggested that I get one, too. They told me having a dog would be good for my health because they can help reduce stress and loneliness and will keep me active and social. I began to like the idea of having my own dog. It would give me a new responsibility and a chance to take care of someone other than myself, like the child I regretted never having.
Living in Chicago, I was a walk away from the Animal Cruelty Society. One day I visited the shelter and curiously peeked at the dogs that wanted to be adopted. I saw this adorable Beagle that I almost brought home, but since I didn’t know what breed of dog I wanted, I decided to wait, and instead, made a list of dog traits that would be important to me: a smaller pup to hold in my arms (like a fur baby), one that didn’t shed, (I hated the thought of pet hair all over my loft), and one that would complement my active lifestyle. After doing my research I chose a Miniature Labradoodle because they’re known to be lovable, hypo-allergenic and very playful.
I started searching for my Mini Labradoodle on-line and came across a picture of a cute eight-week old puppy. She was first generation Labradoodle, which meant that she was bred by a Miniature Poodle and Labradoodle; and her hair was red-parti mix—red with a white stripe down her face and chest. As I thought about bringing her into my busy life, I continued to wonder whether adopting a dog was a smart idea. My “doggy-mommy” friend convinced me that it would be the best thing I would ever do for myself. So I said yes, and then began to worry about how to raise her. My friend literally helped me through the process. She took me to a pet store and showed me what to buy to make my loft pet friendly: a crate and grass pad for potty-training, a dog bed, puppy food and treats, food bowls and of course, tons of toys. She even accompanied me when I went to pick her up. The first thing I remember saying when I saw my new puppy was, “OMG, she’s so small!” She was no larger than the palm of my hand. I named her Lolita, wrapped her in a blanket and carried her into my loft, which now felt more like a home with Lolita in it.
So here I was—a new mom. Lolita was depending on me to take good care of her. I took her to the vet for an initial examination. The doc told me she was healthy but had a mild ear infection. He wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic and gave me instructions on how to apply it to the inside of her ear. At home I showed Lolita the things I bought for her. She seemed curious about her crate and then quickly dismissed it when she saw all of her new chew toys. I giggled watching her fumble around, tripping over her clunky paws, as she chased a small felt ball around my loft; she reminded me of Lido, my catnip-sniffing childhood kitten. After a while, I wanted to try to get her to take a nap inside her crate. I had made it nice and cozy by lining the metal floor with a fleece pad, adding a blanket so she could snuggle up and stay warm, a few toys to chew on, and a water bowl for when she got thirsty. I opened the door and gently placed her inside. She resisted, not wanting to leave the security of my arms, but I coaxed her in with some treats, closed the door and placed a light sheet over her “little cave.” I was hoping she would fall asleep during my quick walk to the grocery store, but when I returned home she had a surprise waiting for me. Lolita had peed, pooped and vomited all over her crate. She was so nervous in her new little space that it made her sick. I felt awful. I cleaned her and her crate and held her for a while. Then I took her outside for some fresh air and our first puppy walk together; with her tiny harness secured around her chest, I held her leash and we took a stroll around the block. I felt like a proud new mom when people stopped me to ask if they could pet her; they thought she looked like a fluffy stuffed animal and wanted to squeeze her to see if she was real. Many folks I met told me Lolita was one of the cutest puppies they had ever seen. I smiled and thanked them, and of course, I agreed with them.
That night I was worried about putting Lolita back in her crate. I knew she would cry, but I was determined to make it work. My friends’ stern advice was to keep her in her crate no matter how much she cried. They said that this was the best way to potty-train her. I covered her up, turned out the lights, and she began to cry. I cringed. Her crying sounded like swirling fire engine sirens. I thought to myself, how could a tiny puppy make such loud noises? Lolita’s howling was keeping me awake, so I wearily disregarded my friends’ potty-training advice, took her out of her crate, and snuggled next to her in my bed. She went right to sleep. From then on she slept with me every night. Bad “doggy-mommy!”
Lolita was my buddy and a great pal to have around when I felt lonely. We bonded like two best friends. I was saddened at the thought of leaving her home all by herself, so I attempted to bring her everywhere with me: I hid her inside my jacket and snuck her in my local grocery store—until the store’s security guard followed me out the door. We ran together in my building’s gym—me on the treadmill and she in and out of the circuit weight machines—but that ended when a fellow gym-mate complained to the building manager. I carried her into my local coffee shop and the friendly Baristas welcomed her with open arms—until their supervisor found out and reprimanded them. When I did leave her alone it wasn’t for long periods of time, and I would often rush home to to see if she was safe. She liked exploring my loft in search of new things to nip at with her sharp puppy teeth, and joyfully discovered that my fancy leather shoes were an excellent source of teething relief for her sore gums. Ugh! Any trouble she got into was quickly forgotten when I walked through my front door and silly Lolita would happily greet me: jumping up, wagging her tail and licking my face with her wet nose and tongue. Funny how that used to bother me with other dogs, but now I loved getting doggy kisses!
We also grew together. I learned to appreciate my single life in an exciting big city. And Lolita eventually figured out that going to the bathroom outside in the fresh grass was so much better than on her little rectangle of artificial turf laying outside on my cement patio; yup, I was now one of “those people,” who picked their dog’s poop up in little plastic bags. Still, I wanted Lolita to learn some domestic dog skills so I took her to weekend workshops at her doggy daycare where she stayed during my workdays. She learned how to listen to a few dog commands and walk without pulling on her leash. Her teachers told me she was very smart and asked if I wanted to advance her training. I decided against it, and instead, was happy to let her play and enjoy just being a pup. At one year old, she had grown into a beautiful female dog with long legs and soft, curly hair. During our dog walks, she gracefully strutted down the sidewalk like a lanky model on a fashion runway, and ran sprinter-speed fast playing fetch in the dog park. And when she got tired and took naps, I lovingly stared at her while she peacefully slept, noticing her two front paws crossed one over the other, and her chest slowly moving up and down with each precious breath she took; and I would listen to her adorable whisper-like yelps as she dreamt.
It was hard to be separated from Lolita for long periods of time. While I was away on work trips, I always missed her, but was fortunate to have amazing dog-sitters. The folks at Lolita’s doggy daycare loved having her for stay-cations. And my sister was a doting aunt, treating Lolita like the daughter she never had: she took her for long, brisk walks on the maze-like cement sidewalks around her neighborhood, hiked with her on dirt trails down by the river, gave her baths after she got muddy paws or rolled in dirty dog poop, and while she worked at her home office desk, Lolita would curl up on a cozy cushion in a chair across the room, and the two of them would steal glances at one another throughout the day. The Thanksgiving holiday was approaching and my sister and I planned a week-long trip to San Francisco to visit my brother and his family. I was going to board Lolita at her daycare, but decided to change my plans after my “doggy-daddy” friend said he would be happy to watch Lolita for me. He had three dogs of his own, and I knew how much he loved dogs, so I agreed to let him watch Lolita for the night, and if all went well, he could dog-sit during the week I would be away. At the end of the workday I picked Lolita up from daycare, drove home with her on my lap, and waited for my friend to come over to pick her up. When he arrived I carried Lolita outside and handed her to him through his car door window. He told me not to worry; he would take good care of her. I gave Lolita a goodbye kiss, and as my friend began to drive away, I’ll never forget Lolita’s fearful gaze staring back at me just before his car turned the street corner; that was the last time I saw Lolita alive.
“When you adopt a dog, you have a lot of very good days and one very bad day.”
-W. Bruce Cameron-
That night turned out to be one of the worst nights of my life. Later in the evening, I received a call from my friend. He was yelling at me through the phone, asking for my help because Lolita ran away from him. He told me he had taken the dogs to the beach and removed their leashes so they could run in the sand. I had never taken the time to properly train Lolita to be off-leash so she must of gotten scared and ran away. I told my friend to call out her name and tell her to come to him. Meanwhile, I got in my car and began driving to meet him so we could look for Lolita together. It was rush hour in Chicago and traffic was crawling along—driving across town to get to Lake Shore Drive was taking longer than usual. While I was waiting for the other cars to move forward my phone rang. I answered and began speaking to a fireman through my interior car speakers. He began describing the night’s events that had just occurred. He said my dog had been hit by a slow-moving vehicle. He told me she was all in one piece and had a small blood stain on her temple. I misunderstood him and thought he said she was okay, so I remember feeling relieved. But then, to make sure I was hearing him, he said, “Diane, your dog is dead”, and repeated it again, “Diane, your dog is dead.” A strong jolt went through my heart and I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I had been hit by a car. When my brain finally registered the fact that my baby was gone, I was in shock, and began to scream and pant and gasp for air. I don’t have any memory of hanging up with the fireman. I just remember calling my sister to tell her what happened. At first she didn’t understand what I was saying because I was unintelligible trying to explain, between violent sobs, that Lolita had died after being hit by a car. When she finally understood me, she started crying, too. We both became hysterical—howling like wild animals. Lolita’s sudden death seemed surreal to us, like we were reliving the death of our first kitten, Lido. Our hearts were broken.
I met my friend outside the animal hospital where he brought Lolita. We hugged and said we loved each other. He felt terrible and couldn’t stop apologizing to me. I remembered my mom’s words, from when our kitten, Lido, died, and said them to him. I told him that I didn’t blame him for what happened to Lolita; it was an accident and wasn’t his fault. I went inside to see Lolita for the last time. I hoped it was all a dream and when I woke up Lolita would come running to me and lick my face. Instead, the doctors brought me to a private room, carried her onto a table and unwrapped her blanket so I could see her stiff, lifeless body. She looked like she was sleeping with her front paws crossed. I weeped as I touched her cold body and sorrowfully kissed her. I told her I was sorry. I felt like I had let her down. She was my responsibility and I didn’t blame anyone but myself for her death.
“Crying is a way your eyes speak when your mouth can’t explain how broken your heart is.”
-Unknown-
My loft felt empty without Lolita in it and I felt alone again. I sporadically cried throughout the day when visions of her popped into my head. My grief lasted for weeks. I felt exhausted. Going home was painful because I could still smell Lolita’s scent on her toys and dog bed. Tears ran down my face as I forced myself to pack up her things, put them in my storage locker and lock up her sweet memory inside my mind. My San Francisco trip was approaching and I hoped being away from my loft would take me far from the emptiness I felt there. On the long plane ride I decided to go on-line and take a peek at Labradoodles that were up for adoption. I spotted five Miniature Labradoodles that I thought were cute. One was similar to Lolita but was a boy. He had a little red ribbon around his neck. I saved his picture and wrote the name I had been thinking of underneath his image. Then I closed my laptop and slept the rest of the flight. The next day I had some time to myself and opened up his picture again. I had named him Paulo, in memory of my oldest sister, Paula, who passed away, and my favorite author, Paulo Coelho. I decided to adopt him to help fill the void from Lolita’s loss. When I returned home from my trip, Paulo arrived a week later. I still missed Lolita like crazy but I like to think that she sent me my little angel, Paulo, to help heal my broken heart.
“Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love…they depart to teach us about loss. A new dog never replaces an old dog; it merely expands the heart. If you have loved many dogs, your heart is very big.”
-Erica Jong-
Today, six years after Lolita’s death, Paulo is still with me. I can’t imagine my life without him. We have a special bond because he came to me just after I was diagnosed with breast cancer. He was my fur baby, cuddling next to me during sleepy days, as I recovered from my chemo treatments. My life has changed a lot over the years, I am newly married, no longer have my busy full-time career or live in the city. As a breast cancer survivor, I have a new found respect for enjoying each moment within everyday. My “doggy-daddy” friend and I are still very close; having endured such a horrible tragedy together (that could have had a very different outcome), we feel fortunate that we made the choice to move forward with love in our hearts, versus hatred. Lolita’s life was a gift for me. She taught me to love all sizes, shapes and breeds of domestic dogs. From her loss I learned that dogs live to love you back; and if you treat them with kindness they will stay with you in your heart forever.
“All you need is love.”
-John Lennon-
