The Day I Met Lola

The first time I saw Lola she had her nose buried in a bag of rubbish.

(All right, so it’s not haute cuisine, but life on the street is hell and we dogs have to eat just like everyone else!)

She pulled her head out of the bag, a banana peel across her muzzle, and chomped hungrily on what looked like a rock-hard lump of French loaf. My first thought was: "What is a labrador doing eating rubbish in the street?"  She was a dirty gold colour, which made me realize that she was a stray.  A labrador stray!  You don't see many of those around.

She saw me staring at her and stared right back – a real street dog, lean and mean.

(Lean and mean! I like that)

She wagged her tail.

(Robert looked as though he could do with a friend, and I didn't want to spend another winter on the street. It can get bitterly cold)

She dropped the bread, trotted over and stood there looking up at me, her head cocked to one side. I got the feeling she was checking me out, looking for a home. I smiled, despite thinking to myself: ‘Be careful. Don’t raise her hopes.’  However, oblivious to my own sound advice, I knelt down and scratched her behind the ear.

(Oooh, I love that!)

She stared at me for a while longer, and then seemed to reach a decision. She raced back to retrieve the piece of bread, dropped it at my feet and waited.

“Why not?” I asked myself.

I reached down for the bread and… No, the ‘ball’ was starting to look decidedly repellent; all mushy and soggy. So I kicked it instead and, like most self-respecting dogs the world over, Lola raced after it and brought it back. She dropped it at my feet again, her tail wagging crazily.  I kicked it harder, further, and again he retrieved it.

(The things you have to do in life…)

After watching her tear back and forth two or three more times, I thought it was time to leave before she got the idea I would be taking her home with me. I kicked the lump of bread as far as I could and watched it disintegrate in flight, showering the sidewalk with numerous pieces of mushy dough. Having so many alternatives, Lola didn’t know which piece to chase. Confused, she stopped and looked around, obviously meditating on which one to go for.

While she was making up her mind, I took off. Out of sight, out of mind.

(The incurable optimist!)

I ran, convincing myself of the correctness of my actions: I didn’t need a dog, the burden of another mouth to feed. I was a writer; I was having enough trouble looking after myself…
A sudden bark made me jump.
I looked down.
Lola was running alongside me, a piece of that soggy, stale bread in her mouth, her tail swishing crazily; finding a human being willing to play with her like that. She hadn’t had this much fun in years.

(Years? I was little more than a pup)

I stopped, knelt down and looked her in the eye. “Look, uh… What is your name?” Lola barked at me. “Bark? Your name’s bark?” I was trying to be funny, but Lola was not amused. Her tail dropped and hung limply between her legs. The look on her face spoke volumes.   “Hey, it was a joke,” I exclaimed. “A joke. You know - ha-ha!”

(What was I doing?! I was looking for a home and he seemed like a nice enough human. The least I could do was laugh at his silly joke)

Suddenly, Lola barked and licked my face.
“Yes, yes,” I cried, “I like you too. But it doesn’t change things. I can’t take you home. My landlord hates dogs and children. He’d kick me out. Now if you were a cat…” Lola licked my face again, and surprised me by making a rather good attempt to purr.

(Rome is crowded with stray cats, and I’d learned a trick or two from a couple of very clever toms)

This was a very bright hound. Desperate too. But I had no choice. “Sorry.”
I stood up, gave her a sort of half-wave and walked away.
I’d gone about fifty yards when I looked back over my shoulder, hoping beyond hope that she’d realized there was nothing I could do, and...
Lola hadn’t moved. She was still there, watching me.
Oh, hell. Now what?
That imploring look on her face.

(Okay, so I laid it on a bit thick, but let’s not forget my life was on the line here. I did not want my destiny to be the dog pound)

She fidgeted about on her hind legs, unsure whether or not she should run to me, but she controlled herself and stayed put.

(I knew I had him, but humans can be weird - you have to let them think they’re in control, that they make the decisions)

Taking her home would mean performing miracles every time I went in and out of my flat. Was I prepared for what would turn out to be a daily aggravation? And if we got caught? My landlord was a real creep.
Oh, damn! Why me?
I looked at Lola, really studied her, almost as though I were looking for flaws.

(?!?)

She was a lab, not even two years old, and very pretty.

(You'd better believe it!)

And in need of a bath!
Oh, what the hell!  I slapped my thigh. “Come on then. Let’s go!”
She came at me like a bullet, flat-out, ears back, laughter in her eyes, her tail wagging at warp speed, and leaped into my arms.

(It felt like Christmas, New Year's and Easter all rolled into one)

Picking up a stray dog in Rome is not difficult. The city is full of them. People buy puppies for their children. A new toy. But the first time the 'cute little thing' takes a leak on the carpet, or the family decides to go on holiday, it is shown the door, kicked out, forced to fend for itself.

(The really imaginative ones abandon us on the side of the road, as far from home as possible; heaven forbid we should find our way back! No prizes for guessing how many of us survive that little adventure. To avoid capture and four days solitary at the municipal pound, after which, if no one claims him or adopts him, he is put down, a stray dog will do anything to ingratiate himself with a human. There are no reprieves, no last minute phone calls, no stays of execution, no commuting his death penalty to life imprisonment. It’s sayonara, adios, goodbye. If you ever want to get a close-up view of misery, visit your local dog pound. It will give you a new outlook on life)

Lola is my best friend.

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