Losing Lola meant more than losing a pet – Jonny Wilkinson

Lola and Isla. Last Friday, the little dog died after a brief onset of kidney issues.

There is a lot going on in the world. Palestine and Israel are on the brink of peace (or not), Trump is sulking over not getting the Nobel Peace prize.

In New Zealand, there is a whole bunch of new mayors and some old ones.

As I am writing this, Whangārei is still at a cliffhanger between Vince and Ken.

All of this to me is muffled noise in the distance, because I am getting used to the reality of not having a neurotic, pint-sized, silky fox terrier trotting around.

Last Friday, our little dog died after a brief onset of kidney issues. I have written about Lola before.

I wrote about her when we moved into our Ruakākā house, when, on our first day there, she got chased by a rottweiler and a blue heeler.

I watched as she rocketed away on four four-inch legs, somehow outrunning the two assailants. She went missing for over a day.

After putting up a sign at the local supermarket offering a reward, she was sighted in the forest, she was sighted in the motor camp, and she was sighted chasing cars on a back road. She finally showed up in the early hours of the morning, scratching at the door.

Last year, I wrote about her, as I contemplated whether she could be trained to be a service dog performing an awesome array of nifty tasks for me, such as opening doors, opening fridges, turning lights off and on, pulling off clothes and picking things up.

Could Lola be trained? Could she have done such things on command? I didn’t think either Lola or I had the patience to stick to the rigour of training.

As I get older, I’ve developed some weird ritualistic habits that form a routine.

On Mondays, I wear yellow socks. They remind me of a childhood comic strip, The True Blues and The Dirty Yellows.

I am not going to say where the True Blues fit in.

On Fridays, I wear my shark socks, and I don’t shave my upper lip, for that weekend goatee look.

On Sundays, I will cook a huge Sunday meal, a roast pork, a Fijian curry or a massive pasta, that will carry us through to at least Tuesday.

Lola did her bit to contribute to the ritual regime. She added to our reassuring pattern of day-to-day life. Her feeding time signalled the time for a gin & tonic. Her hysterical barking for breakfast in the morning was more effective than any alarm clock.

Her bounding up on to the bed and up to your face for a scratch on the back confirmed it was the weekend, and one didn’t have to get up at sparrow’s crack!

But no more. We will have to establish some new routines and get used to life without a little dog telling us when to get up. Disabled people are used to change; we are used to adapting to different environments. We are used to adjusting to changes in our impairments. Resilience is an asset we command. Now is it time for a G & T?!