AR-News: (ID - US) Saying goodbye to an old friend

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Saying goodbye to an old friend

When News Editor Vickie Ashwill’s dog died, she lost more than a pet. She 
lost a member of her family.    

    

    

Lolli Ashwill   

    

    

Vickie Ashwill  

    



<A HREF="mailto:vashwill at idahostatesman.com">Vickie Ashwill</A>

The Idaho Statesman

Lolli Ashwill, 13 1/2 , died Saturday, Feb. 14, at Pet Smart Animal Clinic 
following a brief illness. A cremation followed. A memorial service will be held 
later this spring somewhere in the Sawtooths. A death notice. We write them 
for our deceased family members and they are printed in the paper. My dog Lolli 
is my family. My child, really. My best friend. She suffered from a cancer 
that I didn´t want to admit was taking her from me, and when she was too weak to 
stand, too weak to hold down food or water and writhing in pain, I chose to 
end her suffering. I am convinced that she had very few hours left, and she 
seemed ready to say goodbye. I can´t say the same for me. I can tell you that I 
picked Lolli out of a litter of miniature schnauzers in October of 1990. 
Actually, she picked me. I sat on the floor of a breeder´s home in Fredrickburg, 
Texas, surrounded by black schnauzer puppies. One kept returning to my lap, 
pushing away other pups to be near me. We bonded. I plunked down the money for this 
friendship-to-be, and she came home with me. In some ways, it was probably 
unfair. I was going through some rough moments in life. I needed her more than 
she needed me. There´s something grounding about raising a puppy. She required 
me to feed, exercise and cleanup after her. Sometimes the grossest things in 
life can bring you back to reality pretty quickly. I needed that. In return, 
she was always there for me. She was a lap dog, an in-your-face dog, a 
make-you-laugh dog. I probably have the same stories all of us dog owners share. I can 
still see the 2-foot pile of toilet paper on the bathroom floor after she 
pulled it all off the roll. Or the time she got on the table and ate my dinner. 
She had this innocent look, as if she had no idea who did these things. At nine 
months old, she adopted two abandoned 3-week-old kittens. While I bottle fed 
one, she let the other nurse on her. She carried them around the house in her 
mouth and licked them clean. They taught her to knead my arm like a cat, and 
she taught them how to come to me when I whistled or clapped my hands. They 
slept with her — dog in the middle, a cat on either side. She especially loved 
kids. I remember my nephew, then about 3, cranky and crying. Lolli jumped onto 
the bed, and snuggled into his face. He stopped crying and they fell asleep. She 
ran beside my bicycle as I pedaled around the block. She loved it. Every walk 
started with a tug-of-war on the leash, and every car ride required some time 
on my lap, head out the window. There were the not-so-pretty times. She 
escaped from the house once and was hit by a car, and screamed until she heard my 
voice. Extreme stress, which included me leaving her when I went on a trip, 
could cause her to start hemorrhaging. She nearly died twice, and we made several 
trips through the years to the emergency vet. During part of her life, I also 
owned a less affectionate lhasa apso. They tolerated each other, and 
sometimes fought, which was hard on all of us. All that may seem pretty ordinary. What 
I can´t explain is just how personal our relationship was. For 13 years, she 
heard my deepest darkest secrets. She was here when I cried and here when I 
laughed. When I was sick, she laid beside me as if to tell me everything was OK. 
We had our own language. I understood her sounds, her body language, and I 
think she understood mine. The last night she was alive she collapsed in the 
backyard and never got up again. She spent the night crying and stiffening her 
body, the pain was so immense. I spent the night lying next to her on the floor, 
then on my bed, talking to her, sleeping during the short periods when I 
could make her comfortable. I told her I understood if she needed to go, that I 
would be OK, she would be OK. A week later, I picked up her ashes. I wanted the 
same warm body back. To offer story ideas or comments, contact Vickie Ashwill

<A HREF="mailto:vashwill at idahostatesman.com">vashwill at idahostatesman.com</A> or 377-6444
Edition Date: 03-13-2004

    

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