📖 The Note in Her Collar — Part 4
The days grew shorter, but Walter’s world felt fuller than it had in years.
He and Lola fell into a rhythm—quiet mornings on the porch, afternoons at Mayfield Pines, and evenings filled with gentle routines that gave shape to time. June’s memory still came and went like sunlight through tree branches, but her eyes lit up when she saw him. And when she didn’t remember his name, she remembered Lola’s.
“Your dog,” she’d say, reaching to scratch behind Lola’s ears. “She saved me, you know.”
And in a way, she had.
But now, Walter was starting to wonder who was saving who.
—
One crisp morning in early November, Walter awoke with a stiffness in his joints that felt deeper than usual. His fingers were slow to curl around the quilt, and the ache in his legs lingered long after he sat up. He shuffled to the kitchen, poured two bowls—kibble for Lola, oats and blueberries for himself—and took his blood sugar reading with a wince.
It was high. Again.
He sighed and looked at the insulin pen. The label was fading from being handled too much. Some days he followed the routine exactly—others, he let the hours blur together. Pride and fatigue didn’t make good partners.
Lola padded over, tail thumping, her face now frosted white around the muzzle. Her eyes still shone, but she moved slower, more deliberate.
He noticed her breathing, too. Heavier than before.
“You’re getting old on me, girl,” he said softly, kneeling to rub her shoulder. “Guess we both are.”
She licked his knuckles and leaned into his chest.
They sat that way a long while.
—
Later that week, Walter took her to the vet. Just to be sure.
Dr. Ellis had been practicing in Marietta since the ’80s, a man with kind eyes and a voice that sounded like slow gravel.
He examined Lola gently. Checked her heart, her hips, her eyes.
“She’s in good spirits,” he said finally. “But she’s feeling her years. Bit of arthritis. Some kidney strain. It’s common in older retrievers. You’ll want to keep her warm at night. Extra water. Maybe some softer food.”
Walter nodded, trying not to let the words settle too deep.
“She’ll let you know when she’s tired,” the vet added. “But for now, she’s not done.”
That night, he made her scrambled eggs and mashed carrots, and she ate slowly but with joy.
They watched a game show on the old TV, and when the final buzzer sounded, Walter whispered, “Still not done.”
And she wagged her tail once, like she’d heard.
—
Thanksgiving came. Walter spent the morning cooking—roast chicken instead of turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans. For dessert, canned peaches.
He brought a full plate to Mayfield Pines. The staff had set up a long table in the rec room, and residents gathered with plastic forks and paper napkins, trading stories few of them fully remembered.
June wore a yellow cardigan and a corsage someone had made from fake daisies and a pin.
Walter handed her the plate. “I made your favorites.”
She blinked at it, then at him.
“You always did,” she said. “Even when I forgot to say thank you.”
He smiled. “You never had to.”
Lola laid beneath the table, tail gently swaying.
June reached down to stroke her head. “She’s getting older.”
“So am I.”
“Do you ever wish we had more time?”
Walter looked at her. The question cut deeper than she knew.
“I wish we hadn’t wasted so much of it.”
June turned her face toward the window.
“Then maybe we don’t waste this part,” she said.
—
December brought colder mornings.
Walter’s knees stiffened more often. He used the handrail now when getting out of bed. His feet tingled at night, a numbness that worried him more than he admitted.
He still tested his sugar, though not always on time. Sometimes he skipped meals without meaning to. Sometimes he’d sit down and forget why he’d gotten up. The line between “tired” and “something’s wrong” blurred.
But he never skipped a visit with June.
Never forgot to feed Lola.
Never stopped saying goodnight to both.
—
One evening, after helping June decorate the tiny tabletop tree in her room with plastic ornaments and photos clipped with clothespins, Walter sat down too quickly and grunted in pain.
June noticed.
“You alright?”
He nodded, trying to wave it off.
But his hands were trembling slightly, and he was sweating even though the room was cool.
June reached over and gently pulled his glucose monitor from his coat pocket.
“I remember this,” she said softly. “You used to hide it like it was a sin.”
He chuckled, breath short. “Still do, I guess.”
“Stop that,” she scolded.
He took the reading. It was lower than it should’ve been. He hadn’t eaten since lunch.
She handed him a wrapped peppermint from her drawer.
“I know it’s not much, but it’s what I’ve got.”
He took it, smiling. “I think it might save me.”
They sat in silence until his shaking stopped.
Then she leaned close.
“Next time,” she whispered, “let me remind you to smile.”
—
That night, back home, he set Lola’s bed beside the heater. He laid down another quilt for her aching joints.
She turned in a slow circle before lying down, tail resting over her paws like a question mark.
Walter sat beside her on the floor, leaning his back against the wall.
“You were meant for her,” he said, “but I think you were sent for me.”
She didn’t move.
Just breathed slow and deep.
And in the quiet of that room—between the tick of the clock and the hum of the heater—Walter felt the stillness of winter settle in.
Not the end of something.
But a pause.
A breath.
A quiet moment between chapters.
And he was grateful for it.