Lily Mayo Rose
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After almost eleven years and a fierce fight with lymphoma, we said goodbye yesterday to our French Bulldog, Lily Mayo “Lily Girl”. After a hell of a year for our family, our literal creature of comfort, the one who has snuggled next to us through all of the tears and heartache is now added to the list of those unfortunately missing from our lives.
Sure she was just a dog. And sure I complained about her scooting her rear end on my Turkish rugs. And sure she was allergic to everything outdoors. And sure she had a “puffy front bottom” that needed extra cleaning. But she was our gross, allergic, special pup.
Lily was ours before we even married. Coming to us from Oklahoma (her given name was “Cameo” in a litter with siblings “Star”, “Shine” and the like), she arrived to New York City on December 30, 2010 and Alex took the most expensive car service we’d ever paid for at the time to pick her up from LaGuardia. When I opened our apartment door to see her for the first time, I dropped to my knees and declared her “even better than I thought she’d be!”. We immediately changed her name because it was eminently clear that she would play much more than just a cameo role in our lives.
Lily Mayo Rose. Lily because that was what I wanted to name my daughter before I married a “Rose”, and you can’t really name a human being Lily Rose. Middle name Mayo after a term of endearment Al and I called each other (we really love condiments). Lily Mayo Rose lived it up in New York City. She attended birthday parties for friends - human and k9, had her own epic 1st birthday bash at Shake Shack, and crashed every Friendsgiving by falling asleep on the table.
Lily was the star of The Rose Record 1.0 and would often get recognized at the Madison Square Park Dog Run, from where she would refuse to walk home and we would awkwardly carry her like a toddler the six blocks home. We once purchased a Baby Bjorn-like contraption called a Pup To Go and I wore my dog on my chest proudly like the guy from The Hangover. She made it in both West Elm and Pure Wow ads, stopped to get love from every doorman ever, and linked us up with some of the best humans ever who became not just dog-walkers, but family to us.
Our move to Texas put Lily in a new role - that of chief coddler of our family. She was my companion in a town where I hardly knew anyone, keeping me and my growing baby bump company at all times. The heat was not her favorite. And we quickly learned she was allergic to most kinds of grass (and still to the very end preferred to do her business on the concrete like a true city dog). But neither the heat nor the grass were things an Uppababy Stroller with a 40 pound limit on the lower canopy couldn’t solve. And then all of the sudden it seemed she became a senior dog with two bouncing kids poking and hugging her, feeding her snacks, and providing endless Happy Meal Toys to steal and chew.
As with most dog mothers who end up having human babies, Lily got pushed to the back burner at times. But that’s not to say she wasn’t welcomed right up next to me as the little spoon to my big each night in bed. She knew she wasn’t always the star, but she never lost her main character energy. And if she ever did need some attention, she’d just rip a seconds-long fart making sure all within earshot or smell-shot knew she was not to be forgotten.
Lily sat by our sides in comfort and solidarity through law school finals, wedding planning, late working nights, a miscarriage, the loss of a parent, contractions that lasted days, bringing home two babies, middle of the night feedings, middle of the night toddlers, and on and on for all the moments that makeup a life. Her intuition was keen; she knew when one of us was sick before we did and she never let a delivery man show up without ample notification (although always lowering her bark volume during nap time because she just knew!).
She hated vacuums, nail clippers, and being alone. She loved laps, barefoot dreams blankets, and staying in the bed as long as possible. She smelled. She licked. She tooted. She snuggled. She did that little head tilt. She was there, always.
Saying goodbye to her yesterday was unbearably hard, but we are at peace knowing she is no longer struggling. Deacon and Emilia drew her pictures, talked in their puppy/baby voice, and gave her her final kisses before we said goodbye for now. When I was putting Deacon to bed last night, he rolled over and said “I know she was only one person, but now half our family is missing.” Early math skills aside, it does feel like a big whole hunk of our family is gone. Lily Girl was a huge constant in all of our lives.
Lily Girl, it’s quiet here now. No little prancing paws checking all the rooms for all of your people. Our house and our family will now always feel a little bit empty. Thank you for your boundless amounts of love and comfort. We love you Lily Girl. See you on the other side.
