Eulogy for Lola

Lola. Dear, sweet Lola. The time since your death can still be quantified easily by the number of hours. You left this gaping hole inside me that grows bigger and smaller all on its own, out of my control. I still feel anger, the same anger I’ve felt since your diagnosis. For once I wanted you to catch a break, for once I wanted you to have it easy.

That was never in the cards for you, was it? I don’t know how you started your first years of life, but your life with me started abandoned, starved, and shell-shocked. You had the worry and suspicion forced into you, most likely from abuse, that remained with you for the rest of your life.

At first you just seemed like a timid creature, needing a cat 50 pounds lighter than you to show that the stairs were nothing to be afraid of. You were never able to overcome your fear of metal grates and decided the upstairs bedrooms were just not worth the risk.

As you regained your strength, your frightfulness became something frightening—you were uncontrollably violent toward other dogs. At home, you were Henry Jekyll, and to the rest of the world (at least other dog owners), Edward Hyde. All of a sudden, your world became small again and that was the second time my heart broke for you.

Severe fear aggression, the behaviorists diagnosed. You scored as an un-adoptable dog in multiple temperament tests—a dog that should have been put down at the shelter.

You dragged me reluctantly into the world of canine behavior. I’ll admit, Lola, it was all a bit too much for me. I didn’t sign up for this, I didn’t know how or want to manage your behavioral problems. I just wanted a dog who would follow me around, fetch my slippers, and occasionally get into minor trouble. So many times I felt rejected and angry and sad and resentful as the frustration and stress wore down my body and my emotions.

But every day, no matter how high or low it was, you always showed me with some gesture that yes, we made it through another day, and that it was okay. I depended on you to provide me that assurance, and you never once failed me.

Two and a half years, Lola. Two and a half years of consulting with numerous behaviorists, of learning all about your species, of pre-dawn off-leash training, of stressful dog park conditioning sessions. Two and a half years of ups and downs, ups and downs. I guess during that time I earned your trust, even though I still couldn’t trust you to not make undesirable decisions on your own.

On May 10, 2006, 6:15 in the morning, just as the sun was rising, we were at the beach by ourselves. It was probably your reward for a good training session. All of a sudden I heard movements behind me and it was a large male Ridgeback. I instinctively reached for the leash so I could maintain control, but you turned to check in with me (thank you), asking me what you should do. In that split second, I decided to let you go. Maybe I saw something in your eyes, maybe I was being selfish and wanted to prove that all the effort paid off—who knows, who cares, because the next moments were among the most heart-stopping, happy, breathtaking, beautiful moments I’ve ever experienced. You started playing with Jaaco.

You started playing with another dog.

You chased Jaaco, then you ran and swam with Jaaco’s sister, (the other) Lola. You were born again, (my) Lola. Do you have any idea what this meant? Do you? This was your true birthday.

I must have seemed like a delirious person to your other human when we got home. I still have no words today to describe how relieved, how grateful, how happy. From that moment on, May 10, 2006, 6:15am, you started living a much more fulfilling life. You started really living.

The next many years were filled with morning walks, evening walks, dogs that you loved to play with, dogs that you avoided, long hikes that tired you out, trips to the beach where you swam (you were such a terrible swimmer). We even took a road trip where you were uncertain, then curious, then ecstatic at the snow. You opened so many places inside me that allowed me to accept not just you, but other people and experiences as well.

You were always with me to observe the changes in the water, the horizon, the skies of the bay. You never complained but you wouldn’t stick around that long either. I didn’t mind you wandering off but sometimes you would lose sight of me and I would see you frantically running back and forth looking for me. I would smile and whistle and you always, always came rushing back.

You were never the self-assured or independent dog. You had confidence but only if I was around. It took a very long time for me to grasp that you had your own source of confidence, it’s just not one that I understand. You were so confident that no matter what, I would be there for you, I would make the right decision for you when you didn’t want to, I would help you navigate this society full of rules and judgment that you couldn’t understand. You had no pretense, you had no agenda, you simply said, “hey you, do your best to take good care of me.”

I did try my best to take good care of you, Lola. There was nothing I could do to protect you from your own mutated cells in the end, though. By the time the oral melanoma was symptomatic, the cells had already taken over in places where surgery was impossible. By the time there was a treatment plan (radiation and immunotherapy), the vicious disease had already spread into your lymph nodes and your lungs.

The last few nights of your life, you weren’t able to sleep at all. Your nostrils were stuffed up, your mouth was filled with infectious blood, and your lymph nodes had swollen to the point where you couldn’t breathe unless you held your head up. Every breath sounded as if you took a step summiting Mount Everest. You were so loud that I had to leave you by yourself upstairs so I could steal a few restless hours of sleep. I had to, Lola. I hated it but I had to. I had to make sure my mind was clear so I could make the best decisions for you.

As I sat by your side, by your bed, I would listen to your labored breathing, watch your eyes slowly close, then your head drop suddenly because you were tired, so tired. You looked peaceful, as if nothing was wrong and you were just sleeping normally. I became hopeful that you could rest, just rest. However, I could see that the muscles were working but there was no air getting into your lungs.

One one thousand.

Two one thousand.

You violently jerked your head straight up to gasp for air, to stay alive.

Five more breaths. Breathless sleep. Violent gasp. Over and over and over and OVER.

Each time my heart squeezed tighter, my own breath taking in less air.

You also stopped eating and were barely drinking water on your own. Your lean, low-fat body mass now worked against you as your body literally consumed your muscles to sustain itself. Your eyes became sunken from severe dehydration. Your nose and mouth crusted with dry, old blood.

I felt so helpless. I couldn’t provide any relief or comfort. I dutifully wiped your nose and mouth, changed your bloody bedding. All I could do was to let you know that I was there, close by.

You were so strong, Lola, so strong. Even as you were enduring unimaginable pain, you stood up to find your humans in the kitchen when we ate lunch, you plopped your head into my lap because that’s how I liked you to sit with me. Maybe you did all of these things out of habit, maybe you needed to be around us just as much as we needed to be around you. All I know is you didn’t have to make the effort, but you did.

I couldn’t ask any more of you. You’ve learned to look to me to make decisions for you when you didn’t want to. And here was a decision you couldn’t make, but I had to. There was no right answer, there were only impossible choices. We had to let you go while you still knew that you were loved and respected. We had to let you go while you were still able to enjoy the last car ride to the vet. We had to let you go while you still had the capacity to know that we decided to end your life.

There is no way for me to know if you understood, or were capable of understanding, all my thoughts and feelings for you. In the end, it doesn’t really matter for I could never truly speak your language or understand all your intentions. Whether your anthropomorphic behaviors were intuitive or instinctual, it doesn’t really matter. I related to you as a soulful companion. I tried as much as I could to maintain your dogginess. You were my family.

I miss you, Lola. With time, there will come more days when I don’t cry for you (for me, really) anymore. Indeed, there will be days when I won’t even consciously think of you. Like all creatures, I was born, and I will die. When I do, we will have shared another experience together. We will be equals.