I have never met a dog I didn’t love – except for two, and interestingly enough, they were both Pomeranians. Coincidence? I don’t know. Maybe. That’s just a random fact that I’m using to open up this story about a dog that changed my life.
I always wanted a dog growing up, but we lived with my grandparents, and they weren’t really about that life. When I was in seventh grade, my uncle came home with a scraggly little mutt that had a not-so-cheery disposition. We named her Sheeka. My grandparents were less than thrilled, but obviously fell in love with her over time, because how could they not? Sheeka was the luckiest of all the dogs I’ve had because nobody knew yet that dogs couldn’t eat everything, so her diet was unrestricted. If she positioned herself correctly, she’d get access to really tasty leftovers and even polished off the remnants of a half-gallon of Neapolitan ice cream more than once. What a life.
She was eight years old when we moved out of my grandparents’ house, and I told my mom that I wanted my own dog. One that would become bonded with me the way that Sheeka had bonded with her. Several weeks later, I found a litter of Maltese/Shih Tzus, which I affectionately labeled “malt shits” and had my eye on the only male (Stevie). They were in Phelan, California – a place you’d never go unless you absolutely had to. I felt drawn to this litter of pups, so off we went. We had to use a Garmin GPS device to get out there because it was 2009, and we didn’t have smartphones. Once we hit the dirt roads, the Garmin was like – you’re on your own, losers. I called the woman on the listing, and she said, “Do you see a llama? Great, keep driving.”
Stevie was much bigger than we thought he was going to be, and I could tell by the look on my mom’s face that she wasn’t happy about it. But there were other puppies – all of them smaller than Stevie. Barbara Ann, the runt of the litter, had made her way onto my lap and exuded the calmest energy I’d ever witnessed in a dog. The chillest of chill. She could’ve been a monk. It was almost alarming. I wondered when she would start bouncing off the walls. Isn’t that what puppies do?
I changed her name to Ollie. People said it was a boy’s name, but Ollie was just too zen to care about such trivialities. She was busy eating cookies, playing with the ball, sleeping at the foot of the bed, and going to the park. Sheeka embraced her as part of the pack, and we were all one big happy family.
Ollie was special. And I know everyone thinks that about their dog, but she really was. I believe she studied the English language while in the womb, because she picked up commands so quickly. If I told Ollie to stay, she’d stay forever. You could offer her a treat or scritches, and she’d ignore you until I got back. I’d say, “What a good girl, Ollie,” and she’d wag her perfect little tail. Her internal clock also made her acutely aware of all mealtimes. We would take off-leash walks (I know this triggers some people, I’m sorry), and passersby would marvel at her good behavior. “I wish my dog could do that.” I was so proud of her. So happy that she was mine.
A year after I got Ollie, I had to take a job in Atlanta, GA, and was worried that she’d feel abandoned or forget about me. It was so hard to say goodbye. I thought about her every day. I’d ask my mom to put the phone to her ear so that I could say hi and tell her how much I loved her. When I came home, our reunion was tear-filled. If it popped up on TikTok today, you’d probably cry.
A few years later, my mom adopted Cosmo, and the pack grew to three. Cosmo was the sweetest of the bunch, still is. She just wanted to be everyone’s best friend. Ollie would growl as Cosmo licked the area around her eyes, but wouldn’t do anything to stop her, and the ritual would regularly end with them curled up in a nap together.
Sheeka passed away from a heart attack in 2019. She was almost 19 years old. Losing her really put into perspective how little time we get to spend with our pups. Nineteen years is a long time, but we would’ve taken nineteen more.
The sad part of this story isn’t that Ollie passed away almost a month ago, but that I didn’t get to spend the time that I wanted with her. I’m riddled with guilt over having chosen my social life over Ollie in the latter part of my 20s and beyond. She and Cosmo had bonded. I was dating someone and staying mostly at his apartment, and Ollie became a dog that I only saw once in a while.
Sometimes I’d bring her with me to his apartment and let her run around the hallways or sniff around at the dog park. She loved it. I even took her to work a few times, and she’d fall asleep at my desk, never bothering for anything except for the occasional bathroom break. I took her to San Diego a few times with my then-boyfriend. On one of those trips, he and I got into a huge fight. He was yelling at me, I was crying, and she consoled me. She sat calmly on my lap and looked up at me with her big brown eyes, reminding me that everything was going to be okay. And she was right.
When life got busier, I saw Ollie less and less. New job. New friends. New boyfriend. I’d stop into my mom’s house occasionally, spend a little time with her, and off I went. I wonder if she stopped waiting for me to come back. I think about whether she thought I didn’t care about her anymore.
When I bought a house in 2021, I contemplated bringing her along to be a companion for my new pup, Chico, a schnauzer mix that Ralph and I adopted in 2020. I worried that it would break Cosmo’s heart, or that Ollie wouldn’t be as comfortable in a home that wasn’t senior dog-friendly. My mom had also become close to Ollie and didn’t seem excited about the idea of parting with her.
Ollie never seemed mad at me for not being there for her, and that actually made the pain of losing her even greater. Over the last year, her health declined, but her tail never stopped wagging whenever I’d come over. My mom called me one day in early January and said she thought it was about time to say goodbye. She was having trouble getting up and was soiling herself.
On January 31st, I sobbed all the way to my mom’s house, knowing it would be my last hangout with my sweet girl. She was so frail and had lost a lot of her hair, but was still happy to see me. I put her in a wagon and took her for one last stroll around the neighborhood. It was a beautiful day. She sat up a few times to take in all the smells and the warmth of the sun on her skin. I fed her donuts, and when I had a moment alone with her, I apologized for not being there enough. She deserved all the days at the park, the dog beach, the chair next to me at a restaurant with outdoor seating, and countless opportunities to stick her head out the window while I was driving. She licked my face and made a little Ollie noise that I interpreted as forgiveness that I wasn’t sure I deserved, but was really grateful for.
Ollie was perfect. And she taught me more about love than any human ever has or ever could. I wish I could’ve harvested her super chill energy and shared it with the world. If we were all like Ollie, the world would be a wonderful place. And the truth is that even though I didn’t see her every day, I feel like the world is slightly less bright without her in it. I’m so grateful to have known her, to have been able to love her, and to still feel so close to her.
She is the butterfly I see on my walk, the hummingbird in my backyard, and the calm feeling that I get when I’m sitting in the sunshine. Thank you, Ollie. I love you.
Please enjoy some pics of Ollie & company through the years:
this is EZ with friends 
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