On and Off Campus Blog: The Space Between My Arm and My Chest
By Christine Tao ‘27
Precious Louis Vuitton was doordashed to my front door.
Well, sort of. On November 3rd, 2025, my 16-week-old Shih Tzu puppy was transported by a special pet transportation company to me. His appearance marked my first day as the luckiest girl in the world, though at that time I wasn’t sure I remembered how to feel lucky. He blinked up at me, bundled in a soft blanket, with cream-and-tan-spotted fur and ears too big for his body. After much deliberation, we decided to keep his original name “Louis” and add “Vuitton” to the end.
That first night, Lu Lu–the nickname my brother and I decided fit his personality best– refused to sleep unless he could see me. I dragged a throw blanket to the floor and lay beside his playpen, my phone glowing with unread notifications I didn’t have the energy to answer. Every time he whimpered, I stuck my fingers through the bars. He pressed his nose against them and went quiet. Eventually, we both fell asleep like that: exhausted but not alone.
Mornings started earlier after Lu Lu arrived. Not because I wanted them to, but because he needed them to. His soft cries cut through the fog in my head better than any alarm. I stumbled into the kitchen, hair tangled and eyes heavy, measuring kibble with shaking hands. He sat patiently, tail thumping against the floor, watching me like I was the most important person in his life.
Outside, the air was sharper. Lu Lu stopped every few steps to inspect the world: dew-soaked grass, passing shoes, a leaf flying in the wind. I checked my phone out of habit, thumb hovering over the screen, then slid it back into my pocket. We stood there longer than necessary, sunlight warming my face while Lu Lu decided the leaf was no longer a threat.
Some days were harder than others. On those afternoons, I stayed in bed longer than I meant to, staring at the ceiling while time slipped by. The weight of expectation pressed down on me even there–unanswered emails, imagined disappointments, the quiet tally of everything I hadn’t done and everything I felt I should already be. I learned to measure my worth by productivity, by how little trouble I caused. When I fell short of those standards, the shame choked me, even in the silence. I carried my family’s hopes like a second spine, afraid that if I bent too much I would break under it. I told myself I could handle it, that struggling meant weakness, that rest had to be earned. Over time, that belief hollowed me out. My thoughts grew heavier, my motivation thinner, until even getting out of bed felt like negotiating with something stronger than exhaustion.
Lu Lu would hop up beside me, circle twice, and then curl into the space between my arm and my chest. His breathing slowed; mine followed. When I finally sat up, I felt as if that simple action was an accomplishment both of us achieved.
Training wasn’t easy: there were chewed-up shoes and accidents on the rug. Once, I sat on the floor surrounded by shredded paper towels and laughed until my eyes burned. Lu Lu tilted his head, proud of himself, tail wagging wildly. I cleaned the mess, opened a window, and noticed that I hadn’t doomscrolled on my phone all afternoon.
At night, Lu Lu claimed his spot at my feet. If I moved, he moved. If I sighed, he looked up. The quiet didn’t feel so jarring anymore. My room felt lived in—like something good was happening, even though nothing was happening at all.
Louis Vuitton didn’t arrive with instructions or promises. He came with a leash, a blanket, and a small, steady heartbeat. Somehow, that was enough. He didn’t fix everything. But he showed up every day, and in learning how to care for me, I found myself doing the same.
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