My darling daughter’s beloved pup is gone,
seventeen-years-old.
The first time I saw Olivia Chanel—yes Chanel—was as I walked through the door of my daughter’s NYC studio apartment at the corner of Waverly Place and Washington Square West.
My first impression? A rat with long legs.
“She’s a teacup chihuahua, mama,” Jesse exclaimed, so proud.
“She looks like a rat with long legs,” I replied.
I chuckled, imagining my southern daughter taking Livvy out to pee during a NYC winter.
Tony and I took care of her for a year while Jesse was studying in Buenos Aires.
Livvy Lou loved sitting in the hot Tennessee sun.
Livvy Lou loved padding under the covers all the way down to the end of the bed. And stay there, toasting, all night.
Livvy Lou loved going under the electrified fence to play with the neighboring stallions, who wanted nothing to do with her. But she never gave up.
When she saw me get in my car and drive over to the horse farm, she would scurry back under the fence. Bitch!
I was so afraid she would get bit by a snake or carried off by an owl before my daughter reclaimed her. When we picked Jesse up from the airport, Livvy wouldn’t even look at her. We cackled with laughter. Bitch!
The last time I saw Olivia Chanel was as I bent down to hug her in my daughter’s home at the end of Russo Street and Sanford Street West.
My last impression? My girlie’s beloved 17-year-old companion, now blind and arthritic, but still ever-hungry.
“Rest well,” I whispered into an ear that could not hear.
I chuckled, remembering my southern daughter taking Livvy out to pee during a NYC winter.
Olivia Chanel Stambaugh, 2006-2023.
