Why I Loved My Dog Even More After I Had a Baby

On August 12, New York magazine’s The Cut published an article titled “Why Did I Stop Loving My Cat When I Had a Baby?” Not only does this writer, referred to in the article by the anonymous identity of “Audrey,” say she stopped loving her cat, Lucky, she was actively cruel to her.

She neglected to feed her and refill her water bowl (to the point where she had to resort from drinking from the toilet). Audrey left windows open “in the vague hope that she would take the initiative and leap out of one.” Lucky even “lost at least one tooth,” but Audrey writes she doesn’t know where it ended up.

She admits that if she had done to a human what she’d done to Lucky, she “would be in prison for years.” In an apparent effort to get other parents on her side, Audrey writes, “I don’t know many pet-having persons for whom the introduction of a baby didn’t cause a plummeting of interest in the legacy mammal.” 

Well, here I am, jumping up and down and waving my hands. I still loved my dog, Ollie, after I had my baby. Actually, I loved him more.

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My dog was there for me when no one else could be.

I always loved Ollie, of course, but my love for him started to grow even deeper during early pregnancy. Feeling a little queasy turned to non-stop vomiting. I was diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum — yep, the same thing Kate Middleton dealt with in her pregnancies. Suddenly, my world shrank down to the size of my tiny Baltimore townhouse. 

I was slated to teach some in-person college classes that fall, but after a few weeks of waiting for improvement that didn’t come, I had to face that there was no way I could do it. I went from a busy, athletic woman to a shrunken (literally — I lost weight), housebound one. The vomiting was terrible, and so was the loneliness. My husband was away at work all day and I could barely drive anywhere because I’d have to pull over to throw up. I became depressed.

But I was never home alone. Ollie was there with me — often, right next to me as I leaned over the toilet. Because of Ollie, I couldn’t lay around moaning all day long. I had to get up to let him in and out, give him food and water, and go for short walks, even if I had to carry a barf bag with me. 

And then my baby came. She was perfect. I was obsessed with her. But what did I look forward to most about coming home from the hospital? Seeing Ollie! 

I was a little anxious about Ollie’s first meeting with the baby. He was never what you’d call an easy dog. He destroyed sweaters, hats, and anything he could get his mouth on. He would get all four paws up on the table and eat our dinner before we had a chance. On the leash, Ollie would pull and bark at squirrels, trucks, and anything on wheels. I worried: Was he going to think this small child was prey? What chaos would he cause?

We carefully orchestrated our return home from the hospital. I’d had a C-section, and I was feeling very frail. My parents and husband were there to help introduce the dog and baby. It turns out, Ollie barely noticed her. At a time when everyone was focused on the baby, and I felt a bit like a milk cow, all my dog wanted... was me. 

And my wild and raucous dog was very careful with my tiny baby. My love for him swelled as he sweetly licked her feet. My body slowly healed. I strapped on a belly support band, and managed walking with both the stroller and the dog. Those spring walks among the daffodils and tulips in my verdant neighborhood felt magical. 

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Because of Ollie, I was never alone.

My pregnancy was preparation for the loneliness and isolation of having a new baby. Because of my C-section, I couldn’t lift the car seat or drive for a while, so I was again stuck at home while my husband was at work. I was the first of my friends to have a baby. I’d never even changed a diaper until I had my daughter. At times, she would cry and fuss for hours no matter what I did. I would give up and cry, too. 

But I was never alone with the baby. Ollie was right there with me. He would steal baby socks and pacifiers and run around, making me laugh during pain-filled days. He would cuddle up next to me on the couch as I pumped and nursed. He knew about my lip balm obsession and would find tubes around the house and bring them to me (if he didn’t chew them up first).

Of course, he caused his fair share of trouble, like all the times when I finally got the baby to sleep and he barked at a squirrel and woke her up. One day, we had a pizza delivered after a grueling day of caring for the baby. Guess who ate the whole thing? Yep, Ollie. 

A little frustration didn’t make me stop loving him, though. After all, I still loved my husband and baby even though they were often frustrating, too. While Ollie didn’t get as many walks as he would have liked, he was never neglected. My husband and family helped to take care of him when I was overwhelmed or in pain.

I fell even more in love when my daughter began to love Ollie, too. “Gentle,” I would say, teaching her to pet, not grab. Nothing could make her laugh as much as Ollie jumping on the couch with the zoomies. 

Her very first word wasn’t “Mama” or “Dada.” It was “Ollie.”

In any dog story that’s long enough, there’s never a happy ending. When Ollie was around six years old, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. We did what we could to make his last days more peaceful. Our family spent many sparkling fall afternoons soaking up the sunlight in the backyard, watching Ollie romp in the leaves.

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And when he was gone, we lost an irreplaceable family member.

After Ollie died, my daughter, almost two at the time, didn’t understand. We would come home to an empty house, and she would say “Where’s Ollie?” 

I would tell her, “He is no longer in pain,” but it didn’t stick. For weeks, every time we came home, she would ask the same thing. I would slump to the floor and cry. My heart was completely broken. 

The pain of Ollie’s loss was visceral, physical. A gnawing, clawing emptiness. He had seen me through the most painful and joyous times of my life. And he was gone. 

We buried his ashes under a new tree—a dogwood, of course. My daughter and I still go out and hug “the Ollie tree,” thinking of him and how much we loved him. I thank Ollie for not only the love he gave me, but for teaching my daughter how to love: Unconditionally.

If you are struggling during pregnancy or motherhood, there are resources to help. The National Maternal Mental Health Hotline is a free and confidential hotline available 24/7 via phone or text at 1-833-TLC-MAMA (1-833-852-6262).