October 5th, 2021 – by all accounts – started as mundanely as any morning I’d had for the past year and a half. I woke up at my normal time with an hour to spare before I had to log on for work, popped my sublingual immunotherapy therapy medication under my tongue, and immediately took Lola outside for her short morning walk. She was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as she usually was at the prospect of getting to go outside, exhibiting an atypical amount of energy for a 10-year-old dog. It just seemed like any other day.

I had turned in my two-weeks notice at the job the previous Friday and was excited and counting down the days until I’d move on to the new opportunity I’d accepted with another company. My expected workload was mostly finishing up projects I had been working on before the end of my two-week timer so that my employer wouldn’t be left unprepared in the wake of my absence.

In my jubilation, after almost 2 years of an exhausting and depressing job hunt, I had started looking at hiking trails to take Lola to in the coming weekend. She loved to hike and explore, and I’d avoided doing it for a while due to ongoing stress and in light of the COVID-19 pandemic. I was looking forward to seeing her whine with sheer excitement when she realized we were pulling into the parking lot of a hiking trail, as she’d always done in the past.

In-between work tasks, she’d come to me with her favorite toy – a neon green, pink, blue and yellow ball of fuzz I’d come to simply refer to as “Ball.”

I obliged her desire to play and had a quick game of tug-of-war with her. She withdrew, and I thought for a moment she’d simply tired of the game like she normally did. My roommate, Marlon, happened to walk into my room at that moment and pointed out that Lola looked like she was losing her balance as she was swaying from side to side. She laid down on the bed and was suddenly so lethargic that she would acknowledge the normal whistle we used to call her, but wouldn’t move from where she was laying. She normally hated her paws being touched and would tug them away if someone grabbed them, but in this instance, she didn’t physically react the same way.

Marlon sat with her while I desperately tried to find an emergency vet who could see her immediately. Every place we found was a 30-minute drive away with a one-hour wait to be seen. None of the staff of the facilities I spoke to on the phone seemed to have any interest in getting Lola the lifesaving care she would have needed and expressed a blunt, distasteful apathy toward our situation. American veterinary offices, unfortunately, have a history of callous behavior toward their patients in the face of potential losses in profits.

After an hour, it seemed as if Lola’s condition had mysteriously improved. She had become more mobile, alert, and responsive. I handed the search for a vet who could see her off to Marlon as I sat with her in my arms and reassured her that I would get her the help she needed. As it appeared that she was stabilizing, an hour’s wait to be seen suddenly seemed more doable. Unfortunately, around the mark of an hour and a half, she had lowered her head and her eyes began to close. I screamed for Marlon to come into the room, and without hesitation, he rushed in and took Lola in his lap.

He pled with her to hold on and tried to keep her awake, but she closed her eyes and stopped breathing. In a final act of desperation, knowing how much she meant to me, he attempted CPR on her. No matter what he did, he couldn’t revive her.

When it hit me at that moment that she was gone, I cried so hard it physically hurt. The days that followed were a Hell that I’d dreaded from the moment I met her.

I had her cremated, keeping her ashes in an ornate wooden box that now sits on a wooden shelf next to my bed. Alongside sits her favorite blanket – a red and purple mandala plush throw I’d made for her years ago when working for a photo blanket company – and her favorite toy, Ball.

#

I first met Lola in October 2011. I’d graduated from grad school a few months prior, and had been struggling to find a well-paying job in Fairbanks, Alaska where I had lived. My mother offered to let me rent a room in her house in Lawrenceville, Georgia if I wished to move down south and search for better opportunities. I had packed up my car in late September and spent almost 2 weeks driving through Canada and the Northern United States before I arrived at her home near the Lawrenceville-Dacula border.

My mother had adopted Lola about a month prior to my arrival, and I had a cold welcome as she was initially distrustful of me. Over time she grew more attached to me than she did to my mother. I often took over Lola’s care, as my mother refused at certain points to get her proper medical care, vaccinations, or flea/tick/heartworm medication.

The years that followed weren’t easy for her or myself. In the rubble of the 2008 financial crisis, I struggled to find a job that paid well and was forced to accept lower-paying roles to make ends meet. Having moved to a conservative town in the Southern US, I wasn’t met with much sympathy and often experienced outright contempt from those around me over my circumstances. Being a millennial, the adage of how lazy, stupid, and entitled I was because of my association with my generation was often spewed in my direction amidst my financial struggles. Some less tactful individuals told me outright that I was worthless, one of them being my own mother.

This situation left me isolated, and Lola became one of the few constants in my life I could depend on. I wrote Lola the Buhund and the Empty Sky, taking inspiration from her for the protagonist, during a period of time when I was heavily creatively unfulfilled by my job. It was initially published in early 2013, to sell barely any copies outside of purchases from a handful of people I knew.

Continuing the series would become a struggle, as I attempted to balance the duties of a grueling job, the strain of a long commute, and the stress of a crumbling home situation.

In March of 2017, I left my mother’s house and found a place to rent a room which would be safer for Lola and myself, both physically and emotionally. Later in the same year, I would leave a toxic work environment for a better-paying job. Around this time, I had signed my contract with Valknut Press for Lola the Buhund and the Father of Discord. Marlon, who I’d just met at that point, would also start working with both of us to move past the baggage the previous few years had left us with.

I hadn’t moved to Georgia with the expectation of taking on the care of a dog, let alone connecting with one on such a deep level. Lola, despite being a fairly average dog by most outside standards, was unlike any dog I’d ever met. She was sweet but could be ridiculously ornery at times. Her motions and very presence had a certain level of sass to it that I’d never seen in another dog. She could also be dramatic, mischievous, and lazy.

One trait that she carried with her for her entire life, was an unusual scent that emanated from her ears similar to a tea rose. It might fade if her ears were cleaned out for any reason, but would return within a few short days. I never figured out the cause, but I nicknamed her “My Little White Rose” because of it.

She loved red bean bread I would bring home from Korean bakeries around the Atlanta area, and could often smell and recognize it even if it was still in its packaging inside a bag out of her line of sight.

Lola, as a dog, was unforgettable. I loved her deeply and still do in spite of her passing.

When I began writing the Lola the Buhund book series, one underlying purpose was that my Lola would live on past her death, and even past my own. The Lola from the book differs from the real one in many ways, but the character owes all of her existence to the actual dog. All of Lola’s eccentricities have been honored in her fictional counterpart.

When I took on caring for her, I knew that she’d die one day. It’s an unfortunate part of caring for a dog or any pet for that matter; you’re likely to outlive them. The even more unpleasant truth is that time eventually erases us all. It was my sincerest hope that Lola would be remembered – not just by me, but by others – not just because of what she gave to me, but by what she inspired in me.

I can’t foresee what the years ahead hold for any of us, but I do wish in some way that Lola lives on through my words.

Next Chapter: (Book 1) Prologue - Two Years Ago