What Losing Our Family Dog Taught Me About Love
It goes without saying that dogs are one of life’s greatest joys. If you had £1 for every time you’d pointed at a dog and said to the person next to you (or, you know, yourself) “Oh my god, look at that dog!”, I’m confident we could both dine on a Greggs vegan steak bake every day for a year. At least.
We’re a nation of dog lovers. But here’s the thing: unless you adopt, buy, rescue, or steal (your entry into dog ownership is up to you, I’m not here to judge) your dog the day before you die, it’s highly probable that you, with your average lifespan of 80 years, are going to outlive them. So the moment you decide you’re bringing home an animal who will depend on you, dote on you and love you more than anyone has ever loved you, you’re essentially signing yourself up for guaranteed heartbreak.
And six months ago, my deadline of said guaranteed heartbreak was brought forward when my mum called with the crushing news that our family dog, Lola, had fallen asleep for the last time.
Four years and five months before that moment, Mum had decided to ‘pop down’ to visit me at university — highly suspicious behaviour. Was I in trouble? I racked my brains for the childhood secrets of misdeeds I’d kept from my mum. She said, “I’ve got something to tell you.” And I said, “Oh god, are you pregnant?”
Before I had the chance to implode at the thought of having to learn how to relate to a sibling from a generation that hadn’t grown up on MSN, she rolled her eyes and huffed, “No, I’m not pregnant, Emily. We’re getting another dog.”
First, relief. Then pure joy. Then a feeling this might be a secret scheme to get me visiting home more. I decided I didn’t care. Mum had brought home our first dog, Didi, a month after I’d gone to uni. Now, she was bringing home a little sister for him, to keep him company while everyone was out at work.
Lola arrived home a few weeks later. An hour after that, I did too. A minute after that, I fell in love. Like Didi, Lola was a Shar Pei — a bundle of wrinkles with soft, dark brown fur, a black tongue and small ears that folded in the shape of a samosa. At first glance, she looked like a velvet loaf of chocolate bread. And if there’d been an award for wiggliest bottom, she’d have won and posed for a photo at the awards ceremony to rival that iconic Phoebe Waller-Bridge masterpiece.
For four and a half years, Lola would follow Didi around the house, sleep on his bed, and nudge him with toys to get his attention. When Didi sat on the stairs that led down to the kitchen, looking out into the garden, Lola would sit with him too, a few steps up. But she’d be too high up and just be staring at the wall. We all laughed, but she didn’t care — she was having too much fun with Didi, delighted that people were saying her name and smiling at her. She’d smile right back, wagging that happy tail of hers.
Didi showed her where the squirrels lived in the garden, how to put her paws up on the windowsill so she could keep an eye on what the evil postman was up to, and why there was no need to be scared of her reflection. He showed her how to drink from the water bowl, though she never quite mastered that – choosing to tip the water onto the floor, or drink from the puddles on the patio instead. He chased her on the beach, where she loved digging holes, nuzzling her nose right into the sand, barking a ludicrously high-pitched non-dog bark and quickly moving on to dig a new hole — tail wagging the whole time. She always seemed to be looking for something, but never seemed to know what it was.
But last February, Lola became less keen on her food, and subsequently lost a lot of weight that left her bones showing. She had test after test at the vets, and even had the soft fur on her wiggly bottom shaved so they could test her bone marrow for a tumour. But Lola never stopped wagging her tail, which I’m sure was the dog version of putting on a brave face for everyone else’s sake.
And then, one July evening last year, Lola collapsed in the hallway. She’d had a neurological seizure. And the next morning at the vets, she went to sleep for the last time and then she was gone. Just like that. It had been a tumour after all — just not where they’d been looking for one.
I didn’t believe Mum when she called. I didn’t consider that there was a chance we might lose Lola — I just assumed she’d get better. But I was so wrong. I sobbed inconsolably, in a way I’d never sobbed before, with Mum at the other end of the phone doing the same.
I didn’t go to work for three days. My boss told me to take whatever time I needed. Friends sent flowers, cards, messages and even came round to make me lunch and let me sob into their laps.
My brain kept forcing me into playing a game of ‘grief association’, where no matter what train of thought I was on, it found a way of linking it back to Lola.
When I noticed how lovely the geraniums in the garden looked, my brain would tell me how much Lola would’ve enjoyed peeing on them, knowing full well that she was being very naughty in doing so.
When the sun came out, my brain would tell me about how Lola would’ve laid in the full heat — panting, panting, panting and never considering that she might pant less if she moved into the shade.
And when I finally showered, putting on my favourite pair of Zara shorts with illustrated zebras, my brain would remind me of how Lola’s velvety mouth was a bit like how I’d imagine a zebra’s to be.
People will often try and try to convince you that a human love for a dog is ridiculous. They’ll say things like, ‘But dog’s can’t even really think for themselves!’ and, ‘They’re only acting like they love you because they know you’re their source of food!’. But those people are stupid, and you don’t need anymore stupidity in your life. And while I’m not sure of many things in life, I am sure that a dog’s love is incomparable to that of any other love you’ll ever know.
We humans love parents, family, friends, partners, stories, jobs, outfits that make us look great, adventures and delicious food that’s so good we forget to take a photo of it for Instagram. But do you love someone so much that when they come through the door, you’re so excited that you don’t know whether to jump up, cry, or run up the stairs, squealing, to fetch your favourite toy to give to them for no reason other than you just wanted to give them something to show your affection, in the best way you could? Do you love someone so much that you lie at their feet in the evening, even though the TV’s loud and you’d snooze much better in your own soft dog bed than on the hard floor or scratchy carpet? Do you love someone so much that the minute they leave for work, the only thing you want is for them to come back home again, so you wait by the stairs or in the window until they do?
I think I know the answers. And I think that the 26% of people in the UK who own a dog do too. Because surely, a quarter of our population wouldn’t sign themselves up to a guaranteed heartbreak without knowing that it’s in exchange for the most special, magical, guaranteed form of unconditional love on the planet.
When Lola’s ashes came back, we took her to the beach for the last time. We scattered her into the sea and dug her last hole for her — a little hole for the little dog with the little life who gave nothing but love, and asked only for love back. The beach seemed to be too still, as though it was waiting for all the holes to be dug. Then back at Mum’s later, Lola’s favourite places seemed to be waiting for her too.
And nine months on, they still do. It’s a boiling hot day today, and the sun’s shining on every patch of the patio. Somewhere, Lola’s basking in the heat of the sun on a patio of her own — tongue out, panting and wagging that tail.
