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I met a stranger who loved her dog
I glanced in the rearview mirror and chuckled when I saw Olivia’s head hanging out of the back window — tongue flapping, nose twitching, eyes squinting to guard against the icy breeze. It was January, but I could stand a few minutes of cold if it meant that my pup would enjoy her ride.
Early Sunday mornings were usually reserved for lounging on the couch, but I ran out of half-and-half. My coffee waited for me in the pot on the kitchen counter at home. Few other cars were on the road at that hour. A small sedan pulled up behind my car in the turn lane and followed me into the parking lot of the grocery store. I thought it was odd when the car pulled into the spot next to me given that the lot was mostly empty, but I shrugged and grabbed my purse.
“Be a good girl. I’ll be right back,” I told Olivia. I closed my car door and hit the lock button on my key. Olivia licked my hand through the partially open window of the back passenger door as I reached out and scratched beneath her chin.
A woman climbed out of the sedan and approached me as I turned away from my car.
“I would normally never do something like this,” she said nervously, “but I followed you.” She was young, probably in her late twenties — the same age as me.
“Oh?” I replied, unsure of how to respond. I waited for her to explain why she had followed me and began to reach discreetly for my phone.
“Your dog is beautiful,” she said. I realized there were tears in her eyes.
“She looks just like mine,” she said, gesturing to Olivia. “I lost my dog two months ago.”
“Oh,” I said, much differently this time. “I’m so sorry.” My shoulders relaxed, and I fought the urge to give this complete stranger a hug.
“I just had to see your dog. She really looks just like mine,” she repeated. “May I?” She stretched her hand out towards the open car window, and I nodded. Olivia stuck her head between the top of the door and the edge of the open window, excitedly licking the woman’s outstretched hand. After giving Olivia a few ear rubs and chin scratches, the woman lowered her hand and searched in her bag.
“I have pictures,” she said, as she pulled out her phone and opened one on the screen. She held the phone out to me, and I found myself staring at the mirror image of my pup. From the mocha-colored coat to the hazel eyes, the resemblance was uncanny.
The woman explained that her dog had been with her through college and moved with her to several different states after graduation, but had suddenly become ill a few months ago. The veterinarian told her there was nothing he could do, and she decided to put her dog to sleep. She didn’t want her girl to suffer.
“I’m so sorry,” I said again, knowing how inadequate the words were, but wanting her to know I could imagine her pain. Olivia was my first dog. I did not know what it was like to lose the only dog I had ever loved, but I would one day.
And I had witnessed this kind of grief before. One of my coworkers lost his dog and couldn’t talk about him for months without crying. My husband lost his chocolate lab when she was twelve years old. He was grief stricken and unsure of what to do with that grief. Some people get what it’s like to lose a dog — others don’t. What I knew, though, was that the pain was just as real as it would have been if either man had lost a human member of his family. I knew the pain of the woman standing before me.
She put her phone back in her bag and reached out to Olivia one more time, getting another excited sniff and a quick lick on the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she said and smiled. “It was like I got to see her again.”
I never asked for her name, but I will never forget her — the woman who loved her dog so deeply that she followed a stranger into a parking lot one early Sunday morning.
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