When my ex-wife sent my daughters to live with me in Seattle, she also sent along Lola and Gus-Gus, two little, white, fluffy dogs of uncertain origin. It’s not that we don’t know where they came from—Lola came from a pet store, and Gus-Gus came from Lola. It’s their breed that is uncertain. I call them rasta-doodles rather than appear ignorant whenever somebody asks me what kind of dogs they are, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the case, since I made up the name.

The dogs had been living at my ex-father in law’s ranch since my ex-wife moved in with her recently-widowed father. She and my daughters were welcome; their dogs were not. I suppose I could have just said no, but I felt the sudden life change and separation from their mother, their family and everything else they knew would be stressful enough, and even though I wasn’t all that eager to take on the responsibility of a pair of hard-case ankle-biting pooches—talk about “rescue” dogs—I said sure, we’ll take them with us. 

It’s not that I don’t like dogs, it’s that I understand how much work they are. Of course my daughters enthusiastically swore up and down that they would take care of Lola and Gus-Gus. They promised that would walk them, feed them and bathe them—they were even willing to scoop their poop. They had the very best intentions, but you know what they say: the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Their enthusiasm was short-lived. It turns out that Lola and Gus-Gus weren’t very potty trained. I suppose they really didn’t have to be, considering that all the floors in Mexico are tiled and the door to the patio could be left open year-round. Add to that the fact that the dogs had spent the last several months tied to a tree at a ranch where they could basically lift their legs whenever they felt like it—let’s just say it was a disaster waiting to happen. The dogs began pissing everywhere. Stanley Steemer himself wasn’t able to remove the urine stains from the carpet.

Naturally, we blamed Gus-Gus. Not only was he a puppy, he was a boy. I first met the little cur after my ex and daughter had rescued them from the ranch and had brought him by my hotel room to introduce him to me. I had met Lola, his mother, on several occasions when I still lived in Mexico, but Gus-Gus had been born the previous summer, and this was my first encounter with him. As soon as my daughter set him down on the floor, he began peeing. We all began shouting, but all he did was cast a sideways glance as he continued to urinate. It occurred to me to pick him up, but all I managed to do was extend his shooting range as he continued to empty his bladder all over the hotel room floor. Not a good omen of things to come.

So, we decided to have him “fixed.” I figured that would also take care of his recent Oedipal complex—it seemed like every time I turned around he was humping his mother. And just to make sure we didn’t end up with any more unwanted puppies, I decided to have Lola “fixed” as well. A thousand dollars later, I found myself in pretty much the same position as before, although Gus-Gus did seem to lose interest in mounting mommy.

Stains on the carpet weren’t the only problem. Seattle’s weather isn’t the best in the world for shaggy little bastards like these. It seemed that every time they left the house, they came back in with leaves and twigs and other crap stuck in their hair, which would inevitably end up on the floor or on the furniture. They also liked to dig through the garbage—and dig holes. There is nothing dirtier than a fluffy, white dog that has just dug a hole under the fence or one that has managed to scrounge an empty can of chili or a used maxi-pad out of the trash.

And Lola was an escape artist—a regular “hairy” Houdini. We often received phone calls from some kind neighbor to let us know that they had found her roaming the neighborhood when we thought she was safely confined to the back yard. You’d regularly see us running down the street or driving around shouting her name at the top of our lungs until a white blur shot across the street or from between two houses. She was always happy to see us, and the smile on her face and the relief we felt were usually enough to ease any anger or frustration we felt for having to chase her down in the first place.

After all, as someone once pointed out to me, dogs are just like little people in fur coats. They’re parts of our lives, members of the family. Despite all the mess they made and the trouble they put us through, I came to love Lola and Gus-Gus almost as much as my girls did; and Lola and Gus-Gus came to love me almost as much as they loved my girls.

Lately, I had gotten into a little routine with Lola. As soon as I woke up in the morning, I would whistle sharply, and within seconds, I could hear her galloping down the stairs. She would run into my room, jump up onto my bed and roll over on her back so I could rub her fuzzy belly. It was no different just last week when I woke up the day before my daughters were due to go back to Mexico to spend the summer with their mother. As per custom, my youngest daughter wasn’t far behind her dog.

I had been boycotting dog walking since I would be taking them out three times a day by myself as soon as the girls were gone, so I got Lola all riled up by asking her if she wanted to go “bye-bye.” My daughter said she woul take them out for a walk, and I had my morning constitutional before jumping in the shower. I had heard my daughter return with the dogs as I was turning on the faucet, and felt that all was right with the world as I lathered-up and washed away my worries.

I was just toweling off when my phone started ringing. The man on the other line sounded a little upset. “Do you have a dog named Lola?” He asked. He had gotten her name and my number from her dog tags. “Yes,” I smiled. “Where did she run off to this time?” “Well,” he sighed, “I just hit her with my car.” He said he was only a block away, and I dressed as quickly as I could before hopping into my car so I could take her to the vet if need be. But as soon as I got there, I realized there would be no trip to the vet. The man had moved her to the sidewalk, and was apologizing effusively as I knelt over her lifeless body. It wasn’t his fault, I assured him. Lola was an escape artist. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

I was surprised that there was no blood or any other bodily fluids or solids that the body emits as it takes its last breath. Apart from her utter stillness, she actually looked alive. I wrapped Lola in a towel, loaded her in the car and took her home one last time.

I hurried into the house and called my daughters. The youngest sensed something was wrong, and immediately began asking where Lola was. I didn’t answer her, and instead led them both into my room and into my bed. “Girls,” I began, “I have some very bad news…” As expected, they were devastated. For the past five years, Lola had been the most constant element in their lives. When their mother moved them from house to house and from school to school, Lola was always there. When they had to leave everything else behind in Mexico and move two thousand miles to Seattle, Lola came with them. And now, the day before they were traveling back “home,” she was gone. Just like that.

I knew there was nothing I could do to take away the pain they were feeling. There was nothing I could say to make it “okay.” All I could do was hug them and kiss them and cry along with them, because, even though I never really wanted a dog in the first place—and ended up with two of them—Lola and Gus-Gus had grown on me, had become a part of my life, members of my family.

I buried Lola in the back yard right beside the fence board she had pried loose for her final escape just in case her spirit wanted to roam free. I told the girls that we had to be strong for Gus-Gus who had lost his mother, and who would be losing them for the summer. I promised them that I would take extra special care of him while they were gone, and that I would visit Lola’s grave each day. I’ll admit that I haven’t lived up to the second half of the promise, but I have been taking extra special care of Gus-Gus. And I don’t even have to whistle in the morning for him to come visit me in bed and have his belly rubbed; all I have to do is roll over and he’s there.

If and when Gus-Gus goes,  and the subject of a new pet comes up, I'm pretty sure I'll give the green light, but only if it's a pet rock.

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