column | Now I walk in the middle of the world without Ollie

The best gift was his name: Oli. That there is only a word for him, that someone calls him. Oli was born in a small town in Romania. There he lived on the street for a few years, until he was caught by dog ​​catchers and taken to the municipal shelter. Asylum is a big word for a canopy where the dogs were barely fed, and many of them died. He was rescued by a small aid organization and taken to their shelter. Life was hard there too. When he escaped with a pack of dogs, one of them was shot dead by poachers, leaving him in constant fear of being shot.

Ten years ago I started looking for a friend for my dog ​​Pica. In 2013 I started a smear campaign against Romanian stray dogs, which is still going on, so I decided to adopt Romani. Ollie came here as a refugee.

We met at the arrivals hall in Schiphol. I heard him wagging before I saw him, his tail banging against the walls of the kennel. As soon as he came out, he lay on the ground, soaked in light, sound, and people. I had to carry him to the exit – he was bigger and heavier than I thought and smelled really bad – and when we got in the car we fell in love with each other. Before and after that I have never experienced that with anyone.

In the months that followed, we developed a common language. Ollie had never lived in a house, nor had a human so close. Beka was more helpful to him, in terms of getting used to Amsterdam, but he was determined to make something up with me despite his fear. He learned the words—no, honey, wait, be careful, sorry, come on—and we developed habits. I learned if the growl was an invitation or a question, what he meant when he looked at me a certain way. He had his own activities, such as keeping holes in the garden, and experimenting with Dutch customs. In the garden, for example, the dogs played with tennis balls, he participated several times, but he didn’t like it. I didn’t train or raise him, because he was definitely five years old. He has developed his own morals and values, including a sense of humor.

Ollie always kept to himself. He was my friend, not my pet. He was a diplomat who greeted everyone kindly, including the mice and the chickens. He was also kinder than me, kinder, and had a better understanding of what really mattered.

He has been ill for the past few months. His world got smaller and smaller – the garden, the basket, my hand on his back. I spoke close to his ear so he could feel the words. There are actually three realms: the realm of life, the realm of death and what is in between. He was already walking in the Intuit world. In his sleep he ran a lot, probably dreaming of his first life.

On Good Friday the vet came, a friend of his. She cut the ear tag out of his ear on his first day in Amsterdam, and she was kind to him and saw him. He felt honored that she had come to him once, and that she had also brought his favorite snacks. He was really happy, and then he was really tired. It befits him that he died happy.

Now I walk through the intersting world without him. Just keep walking, Ollie will say, that’s what life asks of you. So I do, and sometimes I call his name.

Eva Meagher Writer and philosopher. She writes a column every two weeks.