A) Her name was Lola, a nod to Lowell Point, the place we call home.
She turned six in June, part Border Collie, part English Shepherd, hundred percent loved. Lola wore a collar, handmaid by Nick's sister Lyndsay, with our number engraved on the tag.
B) I struggle to write about Lola in the past tense.
C) Did you stop driving after you hit her? Was she still alive? (Please say: No, she died instantly.) Did you move her from the road to the ditch where we found her? Did you look at her tag? Did you think about calling?
Maybe you didn't stop, maybe you just kept traveling to your destination, just kept moving from "what is" to "what's next".
D) There is no "what's next" for Lola.
E) Lola was a big "sister" to our nine-month-old puppy Hemlock, the Sable Border Collie we got for Lola to ease her grief over the loss of her big "brother" Tonsina, who died last summer of old age as we lay with him on our porch. Lola changed after Tonzy passed. Didn't want to come inside. Slunk down the driveway or under the porch when we came home. She watched Tonsina die in our arms, as we sobbed and told him it was Ok to let go, and I almost feel like Lola blames us for his death.
Over the past few weeks she had finally returned to us, sleeping at the foot of our bed, rolling on her back for tummy rubs when we stretched in the morning, playing with Hemlock in the front yard, always eager to go for a run, walk or hike. She had so much more to teach, so many more years to live.
F) I want to blame you, to hold you accountable for the death of our beloved pet. But I'm the one who chose to drive down the hill from our home, when the sun sunk behind Foundry Peak, for a walk in the sunshine on Spruce Creek Beach. I'm the one who let my dogs off leash, as the kids and I meandered over the rocks. I'm the one who decided to make the loop through the campground by heading up the creek bed, knowing the dogs always chased rabbits in the woods between Stormchaser's boatyard and the road.
I'm the one who brought my family down to you.
G) Plus, how many times have I taken the curve too quickly on my way to "what's next." How many times have I read and responded to texts while driving down Lowell Point road? How many times have I driven tired, distracted, or when I felt "fine" to drive. How many times could I have hit someone's dog?
And yet I know if I did, I would do everything in my power to let them know. Call the number on the tag. If no collar, post a picture with my contact information. I could never just drive away. Never.
H) But here's the thing, if you had called on Sunday, you would have reached Nick at his campsite on the Anchor River, where he fished with our buddy Gavin. He would have then called me, and I would have met you with our two kids, our daughter Olive, age eleven, and Elias, our developmentally delayed seventeen-year-old son. Instead, I waited to tell Nick Lola was missing till Monday morning, when he was already driving home, and we found her together, with the kids at school, saving Elias and Olive from the image that haunts us still of Lola dead on the side of the road.
Nick and I held each other, and gave each other space, we let our grief overtake us, for a moment, before the kids came home from school.
I) I imagine you driving around the corner, as Lola bolted out of the woods after a rabbit, you with no time to stop. Maybe she even hit you, running into the side of your car like the deer that crashed into the side of mine years ago, denting the driver's side door. I remember stopping, looking in the rearview mirror, seeing that deer pull herself back onto her feet and run off into the Connecticut fields. I still wonder did the deer survive or run away from the road to die? My insurance company covered the damage under a clause titled: "An act of God."
J) Is God responsible for car accidents? For pet deaths? I'm not sure what I believe about God's role in any of this, or if there is a God with control over who lives and dies. All I know is I want Lola back, alive.
K) Please tell me Lola died right away. That she didn't suffer all night. I don't want to think we could have saved her if we searched longer, if we found her sooner.
When she didn't come out of the woods Sunday evening, when only Hemlock emerged, I wasn't worried. I figured she circled back to the car. When she wasn't at the car, I thought she walked herself home. Lola knows all of Lowell Point, as she often took herself on walks without us.
I drove right past the small ditch (where we later found her) on my way home. Was she already there? When we got home and saw no sign of Lola, I left Elias on the couch with his iPad and returned to the woods with Olive. We tromped through the Alders and Spruce, around the rusty old machinery, over piles of broken parts and logs calling, "Lola...Lola...LOLA!"
"Mom," Olive said, "I think I'm becoming a worrier like you. I'm worried she's caught in a trap."
I started to worry too.
L) That night, I dreamt Lola walked in our dog door and we all shouted her name. LOLA!! We hugged her and pet her and she poked her nose into our soft bodies as our shoulders sank from our ears and our worst fears left the room. Lola is back!
M) The relief I felt when I woke up quickly changed to dread when Lola was nowhere to be found.
N) I brought the kids to school and told my Principal I needed to leave to search for my missing dog. "Lola wouldn't be lost and she wouldn't go with anyone" I said, "She is either injured or dead."
O) I wonder, did you wake up thinking about the dog in the road the night before? Did you feel guilt, regret, shame, sadness, nothing? Is it possible you didn't know you hit a dog? Did she bounce off your car and land in the ditch? Woah, that was a big pothole! What's next? If you knew and hold no regret, how do you do it? How do you do you?
P) Do you have a dog?
Q) I know I need to accept never getting answers to my questions, like calling for Lola and never seeing her bound towards me again, the letters travel in the air with no place to land.
R) Lola had such a good smile that she saved for mountain hikes and tromps through the woods. If you drove up our driveway she greeted you with a fierce bark. She often scared folks on Tonsina Trail with her aggressive approach and loud voice, even though her tail wagged. She nipped dogs in the rear, even the occasional hand that tried to greet her. One man pulled his bear spray out on her as I called "Please don't spray she's just trying to herd you."
I have a hard time with vowels and the letter R so sometimes "herd" sounds more like "hurt." Don't worry, she's just trying to hurt you!
S) God, it hurts knowing I'll never see her face again. Never wake to her head resting on the side of our bed. Never bushwhack through our property with Lola in the lead, easing my fear of bears as she runs forward and back, ahead of me, so excited to be on another adventure. I'll never hear her whine at the start of our driveway, as she begs for us to let her out, so she can race the half mile up to our house. Man, she ran so fast, often kicking items out of the car and hitting the door in her eagerness to fly.
I still expect to see her emerge from the woods when I drive home. She is still everywhere and now, nowhere, all at once.
T) So far it's taken me two days to write this letter. I've stopped multiple times for full-body shaking, loud, ugly cries. Does it get easier? Will the image of Lola, dusty and broken in a ditch on the side of the road, ever leave my head? Will I stop expecting to see her every time I come home?
U) Please know I forgive you. I do not hold you accountable and carry no malice or blame. I would hug you if we met. We could carry the burden together. I'd show you pictures of Lola as a puppy. Lola on the beach. Lola in the mountains. We could walk up our driveway to the where Nick, David, and I buried her. Right next to Tonsina. We placed Lola in the ground with a frisbee, ball, Spruce bough and flowers, and covered her with earth, before we picked the kids up from school, giving them a more sanitized version of death, easing their experience of grief.
Heart rocks and Forget-Me Nots grace both Lola's and Tonsina's graves. Olive and I found two good-sized heart rocks the evening we returned to Spruce Creek search. We each carried one back to the car, oblivious of their significance.
V) Its easier to forgive you than me. And yet I know all my "what if" thinking--what if I hadn't decided to go for a walk, what if I searched harder, what if we walked a different direction, what if I stopped to take more pictures, less pictures, what if I could change our sequence of events by a matter of seconds-- will be the death of me.
I know, I know, I know....
W) Lola died doing what she loved, running free through familiar woods, after wild rabbits, she never caught the bunnies, just relished in the pleasure of the chase.
X) Hemlock came back when we called. Hemlock didn't follow her sister into the road. Hemlock sits on the couch next to me as I write.
Y) I took Hemlock for an unleashed walk through the woods on our property yesterday and when she ran after a squirrel, I called: "Lo.... Hemlock". I realize I always called Lola's name first. Never: "Hemlock, Lola". Always: "Lola, Hemlock".
I still sometimes say "Tonsina" by accident. Now its only Hemlock. Hemlock, alone on walks. Only Hemlock at home, along with our rescue cat, Spruce Tip.
Yet reminders of Tonsina, and now Lola, remain everywhere. I see them everywhere I look. I carry them wherever I go.
Z) And though it's unlikely you'll ever read my words, they felt necessary to write.
I may have run out of letters in the alphabet, but Lola's story doesn't end here. It doesn't end in the ditch, but continues through the memories we carry, the lessons she taught Hemlock, the love she gave us to pay forward--for our pets, our family, our friends, this world, and for you too.
Yes, you. And me.
Her name was Lola, her name is Lola, her name will always be: Lola
Oh Christy and family, this is horrible. I am so sorry! What a beautiful dog Lola is. I wish I could wrap my arms around you.
A month ago we went through the agony of (me) losing our 10 year old aussie shepherd Gracie who spooked and fled on a trail at the sound of gunfire at a nearby shooting range. I went through all of this, except your ending, which tears me apart. It was a nightmare. Somehow she survived a week in the forest only to emerge on a high mountain pass and almost get hit. The car that almost hit her stopped and rescued her. We are so thankful they cared enough to bring her in their car and eventually find our family thanks to the wonders of internet searches (which I otherwise often condemn). I only wish Lola could emerge unscathed from the woods to you back home.
Posted by: greta campanale | 10/08/2021 at 04:25 PM
I am so sad for you. Beautifully written (of course), and beautifully sad. Much love to all of you.
Posted by: Sara Schley | 10/08/2021 at 04:57 PM
My heart breaks for you. ❤
Posted by: Missy | 10/08/2021 at 06:30 PM
I am so, so sorry for your, Nick’s, and the kids’ loss of your sweet fur baby. It doesn’t get easier, but it becomes less shocking and foreign. Sometimes there are no changes to the “what if’s.” Though still they echo in our hearts…. Death just is. Love just us. Missing our loved ones, whether canine or human, just is.
Xoxo,
Candice
Posted by: Candice | 10/08/2021 at 09:06 PM
Xoxo to you all.
I cannot believe Elias is 17.
I miss you guys a million.
Posted by: Dave | 10/09/2021 at 09:06 PM
tears tears tears
Posted by: dog friend | 10/09/2021 at 11:19 PM
Thanks all. So many tears here this week.
Candice, thank you for your words. "Death just is. Love just is." So true as I know you understand too well.
Greta, I remember reading that your Gracie was found. So thankful. I too wish that Lola came bounding home, that I could replace our ending with one where she really did come through our door.
Hugs and love to all!!!
Posted by: Christy | 10/10/2021 at 08:35 AM
Sending so much sympathy and love and light. I'm so sorry.
Posted by: Julie A | 10/10/2021 at 12:53 PM
Sending you all lots of love and know that I feel your sadness and loss. We have a framed photo of Luckie and a card underneath with typed up memories of our sweet dog. It’s a lovely reminder of all that was. BIG HUGS your way. XO
Posted by: Ebeth | 10/10/2021 at 04:20 PM
Just reading this now. You ripped my heart right open with the freshness of your grief. I know I don’t have any hugs big enough to contain it, but I’m sending them all to you. So, so sad to hear this news. So much love.
Posted by: Ginna Purrington | 10/11/2021 at 07:12 AM
Bawling as I sit in line at my daughters school, reading this. I am so so sorry for your loss. I pray the image of her in the ditch fades and are overtaken by the beautiful images you shared in this post
Posted by: Becka Honardar | 10/11/2021 at 12:56 PM
This just breaks my heart. I'm so sorry. You have written a such a beautiful tribute to Lola!
I think our Buddy and Lola are siblings from different litters. He is from Tio and June's first litter, in May 2014.
Posted by: Virginia Morgan | 10/11/2021 at 05:39 PM
Virginia, yes our pups would be related. They are such great dogs!
Thank you all, the grief is less fresh now but it still knocks me over at random moments. I will always miss my Lola girl!
Posted by: Christy | 10/24/2021 at 05:10 PM