When dogs get demoted to pets and other moral failures

Lola.

Oh Lola.

13 pounds of slick fur and beagle markings on a tiny coffee table shaped dachshund body. The creature who made me feel like a (worried) mom long before I expelled two humans from my body. I used to stare at her pictures on my phone on the train home from work, and delight in the upcoming love fest that awaited me two stops away. My husband and I used to cut dates short so we could go home and be with her. She was the focus of our adoration and devotion. We were obsessed with her.

While our friends appreciated her undeniable sweetness, they warned us that come children, she will not be as loved. We vehemently rejected this notion. Lola was such a huge part of us, and we could not - and would not - imagine it any other way. Basically, the common tale of the dog who no longer could (get as much love) was to be reserved for people with less emotional capacity; we had enough love to go around.

Oh, the desire for specialness is sometimes so blinding.

She displayed some odd behaviors from the beginning.  Initially, I attributed to likely trauma she had endured in the nine months she existed prior to being adopted by us. She hid food and toys in our bedroom, would urinate in random places in the house (but rarely outside), and if she did it seemed to surprise her as it often happened when we were crossing the street. She would essentially stop, pull, and pee. At this point it was still quirky and cute. We don’t judge.

We would carry her to the dog park near our apartment because she refused to walk unless it was to go home, which she would initiate with the charge of a small bull. At the park she would hide under our bench shaking and yelping quietly. We took her to the vet to rule out any physical pain she might be having.

No physical issues.

When we left the apartment for work (back when that was a thing people did), she would bark for the entire time, as evidenced by two distraught neighbors who filed complaints with the building. We responded with buying $50 sound machines for them.  Again, my therapist mind went straight to trauma. This had to be trauma.

Enters Janet. A Dog Behaviorist. Yes, this is a thing.

Is it different from a dog trainer? Yes, in cost.

So Janet literally enters our apartment with her intern,  which gave her an aura of professionalism. She was thee dog guru, which made me feel comfortable having just spent a stupendous amount of money on a true expert. There was also a lifetime guarantee involved which eased my mind. Janet observed Lola and told us she was trainable, adorable, and otherwise just dandy -  albeit odd. We can do odd. She also reaffirmed her intelligence.

We reached limited success in training her despite our best efforts. When we thought we tried everything, we’d find another tactic - and that too would fail. Even so,  the love for her still was as feverish as ever. I used to bring her to the office with me and delight in how emotionally intelligent she was, as she comforted many distraught patients. When I wasn’t frantically collecting her droppings from my boss’s office before he would see, I was a proud dog mom. This animal brought so much joy to my life.

Five months into my first pregnancy with Emilia, it’s 2 A.M. and Lola is throwing up for the 17th time. We drove into the city and took her to the nearest animal ER to have her looked at. She ended up staying there for 3 nights with a severe allergic reaction to something we don’t know. Quirky. Luckily our pet insurance covered most of the exorbitant medical costs. We visited her there daily.

When we brought her home, I felt as though I would never sleep again as I was so worried about her getting sick again. I distinctly remember entering the elevator at the end of the work day with my boss at the time, and asking him how he fathers two children when the levels of anxiety I had for my dog were already so high. He laughed and said I would get used to it. I didn’t laugh back.

Lola was my loyal companion throughout the rest of the pregnancy. She put her head on my growing belly, and I fantasized about her playing with the new baby. It was profoundly true to me that she was indeed my baby too.

When Emilia came, Lola was her usual nervous-self, but unbelievably gentle with her. She allowed ear tugs, and was gracious about our attention being directed elsewhere. Then Covid, which might have been  the best thing that happened to her; all of us at home. All. The. Time.

Slowly her barking became more frequent, the high-pitch yelps often met with frustration and curse words which we immediately took back. We’d apologize. There was a baby who couldn’t sleep, which means when she actually did - she couldn’t be woken up. It was just too much stress. The baby’s sleep came before Lola’s feelings. Strike one that we were well on our way to be just like everyone else. Damnit.

The second pregnancy took place in our new house which contained our growing pains as a new family of almost four. Strike two- Lola began to not count as a family member. We quickly corrected course and counted Lola as our child. This time we needed to be reminded.

Baby Romi made her grand debut in March, and soon Lola had become the loudest and worst roommate in the house, which says a lot with a toddler and newborn. She barked incessantly, inconsolably, disruptively. More babies, more barking. She slept with us in bed every night, but that was the extent of affection we had in us. The exhaustion was (and is) overwhelming. It’s not personal, Lola. Sometimes I call myself and I, myself, don’t answer.

Strike three surprisingly has to do with Hamilton. Last week we were driving in the car listening to the Hamilton musical soundtrack and singing The Schuyler Sisters song. You know, the one with “Angelica, Eliza, (and Peggy)” line. We sang “Emilia, Romi, (and Lola)”. Lola and Peggy Schuyler were in the same category- the forgotten sisters. It was official. Lola had been demoted to Pet. She knew it and we came to know it. And it sucked.

It marked a shift in priorities, and an end to a naivety associated with pre-kid life. It felt like a maturity slap in the face. The intensity of emotion now reserved for fewer. There is less capacity.

And we are not special.