Is it love, or survival?

6 min readApr 10, 2021

I didn’t notice for the longest time, the change, which is kind of what living in a pandemic is like. We just are, one day at a time, not noticing how the world moves around us until someone points out you’re wearing the same clothes, again, day after day. Or until the local coffee shop closes, or until you fathom the ever mounting loss.

In the middle of all of this, I remark on how Lola and I have quite the morning routine figured out. She not budging from her spot on her bed until I sit in the chair my parents each fell asleep watching TV in. Socks slipping on the signal to move from one station to the next. From one nap to the next. From her bed in our room to Ben’s down a flight, a second stop on the train called morning.

Pandemic life something she’s been living her entire eleven years, soon to be twelve. Routine a dog’s best friend. Ours too.

“I wish she could tell us what they talked about,” Mary says after Lola returns from the vet.

“She has. We talk all the time,” I say.

“I used to go in with her, but not now with COVID,” Mary says.

“The vet says she’s got a torn ACL.” Mary informs me after a check up not for Lola’s leg, but because she’s developed a nasty cough. Wouldn’t that be a trick, if Lola contracts the virus. I don’t think dogs can, but crazier things are happening right now.

“Lenny had a torn ACL for years. Played on it until a doctor finally pointed it out to him,” I say. “She’ll be fine.”

“Vet says that the surgery takes four months of recovery.”

From what I can see, she’s OK. She trots along during our walks. Runs around without a limp. Has never cried out. There’s the occasional lifting of that leg, and she’s slower to want to jump up into the van. But she’s still happy to do her tricks at night in return for the reward of a Greenie, a dog treat in the form of a tooth brush, ostensibly to clean her teeth.

“I’m going to talk to a surgeon,” Mary says after our vet recommends that we get her leg checked.

“She’s healthy now but it’s likely to get worse,” the vet said.

If it’s like the torn tendon in Ben’s foot, we’ve learned that you can fix it now, or fix it later. No difference. And like Lola, you can’t tell watching either of them walk.

He can get by, but it’s limiting. Lola’s in the same place, can run in the park, but would struggle to chase the cat, or the goat.

“Git it!” Mary cried one day after the two of them confronted a squirrel right in front of the house. Lola did, catch it, so we don’t say that anymore.

“Look, she’s following you around,” Mary says. I hadn’t really noticed beyond her coming down in the morning to remind me that it was time to go out. And yes, she does give me that look when it’s time to eat. “No, she’s following you around all day, sleeping at your side, waiting for you.”

Now that Mary’s pointed it out, I have noticed that Lola does side-up to me, sometime sleeping right next to me, often sleeping under the table that I work at. Pandemic life suits her just fine. Everybody home. The occasional romp around the dining room table. Walks around the block. Trips to the park.

“Don’t be fooled,” our first trainer used to say. “It’s not love, it comes down who feeds them.”

He’s got a point, because I’ve been feeding her for months, since Nicole went back to college. In the morning, and most often at night as well. And then the tricks for a treat after one last evening walk.

Lola knows what to expect from me, which could be summed up in one word. Predictable.

“They watch your every movement,” Mary says, which makes sense.

“Awh! Look at her eyes.” I say.

We call it love. To them it’s survival

I’ve noticed a lot of new dogs in the neighborhood. Pandemic pups. People are home, so having a dog has never been easier to train and take care of. The paper says Chewy’s printing money with great customer service, the Amazon of the pet world. Mary and I like living in the city with Lola. We’re meeting new people, talking to strangers, reacclimatizing to being social. Lola’s actually not all that social, at eleven she doesn’t have much patience to the playful pups who want to jump up and play. We have to be careful. Intervene.

“Take care of her,” Ben says. Nicole too. “We miss her and want to see her.” He stops there, not saying the obvious, that she’s eleven going on twelve this past week. Ben’s been in Arizona now for almost a year and a half, and we’ve not been able to see him for over a year. Hard for everyone, including Lola who loves her kids. For now, she sees me, and Mary, every day, same as the day before, like clockwork. Zoom chats don’t do much for her, even on her birthday.

“I’m sad,” Mary says. “She’s become your dog.”

My first. We’ve had dogs my whole life, but they’ve always been attached to someone else. My mom, Mary. Not me. That’s changed with pandemic life. The two of us unwittingly thrust together. A symbiotic relationship based on routine, which dogs and remote workers seem to have in common. We sleep the same length of time each night. Eat the same foods. Walk the same walks. Do virtually the same exact things day in and day out. Heaven for a dog, for this dog, who’s been anxious her whole life.

“I like this,” Lola says to me when Mary’s not around. “You’re boring, but you’re alright.”

“Thanks,” I find myself saying back to her.

“Wanna chase me around the living room for a few minutes?” she asks.

“Sure!” I say. “Are you going to let me catch you?”