UPFRONT:IN A COLUMN A few weeks back I made passing reference to my flatulent dog. That she is prone to deadly, gaseous emissions that could fell a grown man – or woman – at 50 paces is not in dispute. Yet her sulking since the appearance of said column is a daily reminder that to characterise her thusly is to give a one-dimensional representation of my three-dimensional, four-legged friend.
For Lola is more than the sum of her windy parts, and it is only fair that if gombeen dogs like Marley have entire books and films in their honour, Lola should get more than an afterthought about her odorous releases. Consider this my attempt to make amends, my Marley Me but without the dead dog at the end.
Lola L Lolerson, to give her her full name – a seven-year-old, medium-sized, gravy-eyed mutt whose breed is described on her veterinary certificates as “brown” – is the only dog in my life, though truth be told, she’s not the first. Knowing that she probably won’t get round to perusing this piece herself, I can admit to loving other dogs before her. My first were two frisky Scottish Terriers of delightful temperament, whose only drawback as dogs go was the fact that they were invisible to everyone but me.
Having beseeched an unresponsive Santa Claus for years for some canine company, I finally accepted the beardy lad was not going to cough up, so I took matters into my own hands. The result was two adorable, if imaginary, dogs – a black and a white Yorkshire Terrier called Paddy Black and White Whiskey – no prizes for guessing the inspiration. My parents were initially amused until I began walking thedogs to Mass and tying them up outside the church, the whole parish watching as I patted the air.
Shortly thereafter, Santa caved in and Bruno arrived, a small brown Jack Russell who spent most of his all-too-short life waiting for a crack in the front door so he could make one of his desperate bids for freedom. After Bruno left us for a place where the door is always open, along came Toby, a squat ball of fur with the charm of a Kennedy, who could persuade a death row prisoner to give up his last meal with just a whimper.
When Toby died, my parents called it a day on dogs, and it wasn’t until the Beyoncé and I became acquainted that another four-legged friend, the all-important subject of this column, trotted into my life. When she and I were introduced, I knew that if I didn’t win her heart, his would be out of the question.
Thankfully, I had one major advantage: my gender. Lola has a weakness for women, and while she will treat most males with ill-concealed disdain, she’s fierce fond of a bit of skirt. In the end, all it took was a limitless supply of surreptitious dog treats for her to become my number one fan, so devoted that any separation, even a trip to the bathroom, left her whimpering in my wake. So we moved in together, and life ever since has been hairier, smellier, noisier, wetter – she likes a good, slimy face-lick, does Lola – and improved in just about every way.
Just one look at her tiny, upturned head that’s a little too small for her body can instantly transform my mood. She tries to disguise this imperfection by sitting in such a manner as to maximise the effects of foreshortening, folding her corpulence behind two skinny, sandy legs as she hops from one to another in undisguised excitement. Her own moods are changeable, too: she can sulk like a woman scorned when, for example, you make public her flatulence, and comes over all the grand dame, stretching her jowly neck when affronted and refusing to be won over by anything other than food.
For Lola, impeccably mannered in all other respects, food is her one vice: she will, in fact, steal candy from a baby should the opportunity present itself. Her life revolves around eating – oh, the slavering joy of it! – and walking, which she does with equal joy, tail wagging, ears flapping, though usually without expending too much energy, and definitely not when it’s raining. Never a fan of excess effort, she draws the line entirely at running, and watches me bolt out the door in disbelief, following me for 30 seconds before insisting that I slow the pace to something more along the lines of a manageable amble that allows her to investigate every empty crisp packet on the way.
Sleeping is more her thing, as Lola likes to conserve the bulk of her energy for eating and barking at the doorbell. Then there is the aforementioned flatulence, carried off with affected nonchalance, her expression unchanging as she unleashes toxic fumes on unsuspecting visitors who have been taken in by her doe-eyed gaze.
But oh, when she wakes in the morning and tries to scratch her face, sandy paws wiggling at her eyes; when she snuggles her warm furry body against me and plonks her head in my lap; when I open the door after one of those days and am greeted by a bounding ball of delight at my return – all this is why I will now scoop up a mess twice daily. All this for the sight of herwet snout hanging out of the car window, taking the air.
Lola L Lolerson may never make it Marley Me big, but she is the sweetest, calmest dog I’ve ever known and the sight of her furry ears is a bulwark against all the ills that life throws at me. The fact that she’s not a figment of my imagination is one bonus. The fact that she comes with such a good-looking master is another.
fionamccann@irishtimes.com