Lola, Lila, and A Little Empathy

Yesterday I met Peter, an older gentleman from my neighborhood. He patted my pup on the head and told me his wife goes to the pound to find the most troubled dog she can—because she believes she can fix them.“And she does,” he said with a smile.

Today I met his wife. I waved from across the road, and she hurried over like an old friend. My usually shy pup melted under her touch, tail thumping with joy.

“I like to go to the pound and pick the dogs with the most problems,” she said. “When did you get this sweet girl?”

“Friday,” I told her. Her face lit up—she’d adopted a dog that day too.

I’d seen her dog’s head pop over the fence that morning, but up close, my heart stumbled.“Is that a foxhound?”

“It’s funny you say that,” she laughed. “Yes—half foxhound, half beagle. A fox-eagle. Her name’s Lila.”

A lump rose in my throat. My soul dog, Lola, had died two Decembers ago—a foxhound too.

“What are the odds?” she said. “We adopt her the same day you adopt yours. And her name’s almost identical to your old dogs.”

She disappeared into her garage and returned with a stuffed duck. Kneeling, she patted my dog, Empathy, on the head. “For you.”

As they played in my yard, I watched the way light caught in their movements, and wondered—was the universe telling me this is exactly where I’m meant to be?