📖 The Note in Her Collar — Part 6
By mid-February, the dog was limping more noticeably.
Lola no longer bounded to the door when Walter fetched his coat. Instead, she rose slowly, joints creaking like rusted hinges, and walked beside him with quiet dignity. Her breath came heavier in the mornings, and he noticed the way she paused at the bottom of the porch steps, as if calculating whether they were worth the climb.
He tried not to fuss.
Dogs, like people, deserved their pride.
But he saw it—the slow retreat of her body. The weariness in her eyes. And it mirrored something he’d been feeling, too.
—
Walter had stopped driving after his last dizzy spell. It wasn’t worth the risk. Instead, he called a community transport service twice a week to visit June. Lola came with him, always riding in the back seat, head resting against the window.
At Mayfield Pines, staff now knew Walter by name, and June’s room had become a second home. But something had changed. Something quiet. Subtle. Like the edge of a curtain being pulled.
She still smiled when he entered. Still reached for his hand. But the time between recognition and confusion had shrunk.
One visit, she called him “Marvin.” Another time, she stared at him and asked, “Do I know you from church?”
He always smiled. Never corrected her.
Because sometimes, ten minutes later, the fog would lift and she’d laugh at one of his old jokes like no time had passed.
He took what he could get.
Every minute mattered now.
—
One Wednesday, as snow flurried lightly outside the window, June asked a question that stopped him cold.
“Do I have children?”
He looked at her, trying to read her face.
“No,” he said gently. “Not that I ever knew of.”
She frowned. “That can’t be right. I remember someone. A girl.”
Walter hesitated. “Maybe a niece?”
“Maybe.” She smiled faintly. “She liked animals. Used to sit in the grass with the dog for hours. Said the dog understood her better than people did.”
He swallowed hard.
“She sounds like someone I would’ve liked.”
June blinked.
Then looked at him with sudden clarity.
“You’re the one,” she whispered. “You’re the boy from the orchard.”
He nodded. “Still am.”
And for just a heartbeat, her eyes brimmed with something that felt like peace.
—
That night, Walter and Lola sat in the sewing room again. The wind outside rattled the windows. Walter’s hands trembled as he poured her fresh water. He sat beside her and laid out a soft blanket.
“Dr. Ellis said your kidneys are slowing down,” he murmured. “Said I’ll know when it’s time.”
Lola didn’t move. Just lifted her head and stared at him with those deep, knowing eyes.
“You’ve given us both more than we deserved.”
He reached forward and touched her paw.
“I’m not ready.”
Her tail tapped the floor once.
Not quite approval. Not quite defiance.
Something in between.
—
The next morning, Walter forgot to check his sugar.
He’d been up most of the night tending to Lola, who now needed help to rise and drink. She’d refused food for two meals in a row. He knew what it meant, but still hoped.
By noon, his head was swimming. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t sat down. And when he leaned over to clean the water bowl, his legs gave out from under him.
He hit the floor hard.
The sound must’ve startled Lola, because she let out a low, pained bark—her first sound in days.
Walter tried to sit up, but the world spun. His limbs felt heavy.
The phone was on the kitchen counter, ten feet away. It may as well have been ten miles.
He shut his eyes.
Then heard it.
Scraping.
Dragging.
Lola—dragging herself across the floor with trembling legs.
She reached him. Pressed her nose to his cheek. Whimpered once. Then again.
And somehow, that broke through.
He pushed himself upright.
Crawled to the chair.
Pulled himself up with a grunt that echoed like thunder in the empty house.
He took his reading.
Dangerously low.
He grabbed the emergency juice box from the fridge. Sat down. Breathed.
Lola curled beside him.
They stayed like that a long time.
Man and dog, both broken in their own ways.
But not done yet.
—
That weekend, he wrote a letter.
A real one. Pen and paper. Careful script.
Addressed it to Mayfield Pines.
“To June McAdams,” it read.
“In case I can’t make it back one day.”
He didn’t say goodbye.
Just memories.
A thank you.
A note that said, simply: “You reminded me how to smile.”
—
On Sunday morning, with Lola bundled in a blanket on the porch beside him, Walter watched the birds flutter at the feeder.
“I think we’ve earned a little spring,” he whispered.
The sky was pale, but warming.
A new season on the edge of bloom.
And though the cold still clung to the bones of the world, Walter felt something stir in his chest.
A readiness.
For what, he didn’t yet know.
But when Lola lifted her head one last time, eyes bright for just a flicker—
He knew it would be soon.