📖 The Note in Her Collar — Part 7
The first crocuses began to push through the frost like soft declarations of defiance. Spring had not arrived, not really, but its breath was on the wind. Walter sat on the porch wrapped in an old army blanket, the same one he’d used in Korea, and beside him, Lola lay motionless except for the slight rise and fall of her chest.
She hadn’t eaten in three days.
She no longer rose to follow him, even with encouragement.
Her tail hadn’t wagged since Thursday.
But she still watched him.
Even as her body failed, her eyes stayed alert, holding something steady inside them—something that made Walter feel ashamed for how much he’d let his own strength slip.
That morning, he checked his blood sugar like clockwork. Ate half a banana, made oatmeal, even drank the milk. He took the meds. All of them.
Because he knew what was coming.
And when it came, he didn’t want her to see him fall again.
—
He called Dr. Ellis.
Not for advice. He already knew what the vet would say.
He called for clarity. Permission, maybe.
“I don’t want her to suffer,” Walter said, voice thick.
“You’ve done more for her than most people do for their own family,” Dr. Ellis replied. “If you want, I can come out to the house.”
“No,” Walter said after a long pause. “Not yet.”
There was another silence. The kind between men who both understand grief.
“Then hold her close,” the vet said. “She’ll know.”
—
That afternoon, he called Mayfield Pines. Asked if June was having a good day.
The nurse hesitated. “She’s a little quiet. Confused.”
Walter’s hand tightened on the receiver.
“May I bring her something?” he asked. “Something from Lola.”
They said yes.
—
He wrapped a scarf around Lola’s neck. June’s scarf. Pale yellow with a little embroidered sun in the corner. She had left it in the truck once during a summer ride. He’d meant to return it for months.
Lola let him gently place it around her, though she barely lifted her head.
“Just for a bit, girl,” he whispered. “I’ll be back before dark.”
She blinked.
No protest.
Only trust.
—
At Mayfield Pines, June was sitting by the window, folding a napkin into careful squares. She looked up as Walter entered, the light catching her face.
But her eyes were different.
Not confused—just far away. As though watching a place only she could see.
“Hello,” she said politely.
“It’s me,” Walter said gently. “Walter.”
She studied his face.
Then smiled faintly. “Of course it is.”
He sat beside her, unwrapped the scarf from around his wrist, and placed it into her hands.
“Lola wore this today,” he said. “She wanted you to have it.”
June touched the fabric to her cheek.
“Is she alright?”
Walter couldn’t answer. Not with words.
He watched her fingers trace the edge of the sun.
“She was mine,” June said softly. “But I think she was yours too.”
He nodded.
And then—quietly, carefully—he reached into his coat pocket and handed her a photograph. It was from last month. A snapshot taken by one of the nurses. June, Walter, and Lola in the courtyard. June laughing, Walter mid-sentence, and Lola sitting proud between them like she was the one holding it all together.
June stared at the photo a long while.
And then her face crumbled.
“She’s dying, isn’t she?”
Walter looked out the window.
The crocuses trembled in the wind.
“Yes.”
June covered her mouth, and for a moment her age fell away. She looked like the girl from the orchard again, grieving the death of a chick, a rabbit, a wild creature she’d loved too deeply.
“She came back for me,” she whispered. “But she stayed for you.”
He said nothing.
Just held her hand.
—
Back at home, the sun was setting in bands of gold across the back fence.
Walter stepped onto the porch.
Lola hadn’t moved.
But her eyes flickered open as he approached.
“Still waiting on me,” he murmured, kneeling with a wince.
He slid beside her and pulled the blanket over them both. Her body was warm, but fragile. Her breathing shallow. Still no food. No water.
But she laid her head against his thigh and sighed.
He ran his hand over her back slowly, feeling the contours of her bones beneath thinning fur.
“Do you remember the day we met?” he asked softly. “You came out of those woods like some kind of ghost. And you gave me a note I’d been needing for years.”
She didn’t move.
But her tail gave a faint twitch.
He smiled.
“I still have it. Folded in my wallet. Read it on the hard days.”
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out the worn scrap.
“If found, please remind me to smile.”
He held it up, then folded it again with reverence.
“You did, girl. You reminded me every single day.”
—
Night settled around them.
Cold air rolled in across the porch.
Walter pulled her closer.
And for a long time, neither of them moved.
The stars began to appear—quiet witnesses to their final vigil.
Lola’s breathing slowed.
And when the time came, it came gently.
No cry.
No struggle.
Just a long, quiet exhale—
And then stillness.
Walter didn’t speak.
He simply laid his hand over her side.
And whispered, “Thank you.”