Yesterday I went to the vet to pick up Lolly Brown our Labrador. I said, “Hello, Loll,” the way I have always greeted her and then sang a little ditty I made up years ago. You can hum it however you like, but my tune is somewhere between “Paris in Springtime” and “Happy Birthday.”

Lolly Brown came to town wearing a crown, upside down.

Then I put her on the passenger seat of my car peacefully tucked away in her 9 by 5 inch red cedar box.

She was our Lolly Brown, the Lolly Ba-Ba, the Lolly Dalai Lama, Lollylicious, and many more. She came to us as a puppy when Dad won her at an auction for the Boys and Girls Club and promptly passed her on to us. Her puppy breath smelled sticky sweet and sometimes of roe. Most of her life she, her breath, her corporeality smelled of truffle mousse, mushrooms and steamed baby zucchinis.

Lolly Brown’s namesake was a Louisiana woman with creole roots who raised my older sister and me. Lolly Brown, the human, taught us to sing and dance and be happy little girls. Lolly Brown, the dog, looked over me as well, but for much longer. About fourteen years, to be exact. That was her job, to corral, to herd, to command our other canines, to remind her humans of their tasks. By licking my wrists she would wake me in the morning, and by pacing bedside at night she told me to check the lights and locks before falling asleep. Lolly Brown paced the vineyard multiple times a day with Bob making sure he got his exercise; she leaped through the waves and protectively swam by my side until her hips no longer allowed her, at which time she stood at the breakwater absorbing the cold minerality of the Pacific. She roused me from my books and writing to begin dinner, she greeted guests with gusto and, appropriately, lollygagged around our ankles while we gossiped into the night. If you were a favorite, she would rest her head on your ankles. You know who you are. If you were to come between the two of us, literally, around dinnertime, you could turn into mincemeat. You also know who you are.

While Loll wasn’t one for playing ball, one of her favorite past times as a youngster was to watch the World Series with Bob, he on the sofa, she on top of the back sofa cushions tucked behind his head. A home-run always got her very excited regardless of who hit it. Her favorite television shows were Scandal and Homeland, though typically demonstrated a grave dislike for violence.

Lolly was a keen traveler who, (and I would bet on this) advised her humans on key pilotage choices. She generously assisted the gentlemen who care for the garden by relieving herself on their fine handiwork. Reliably, she served as a noble escort to their lunch boxes. She taught our youngster Ella the Schmella what, where, when, how and sometimes, who. She stayed with us until she knew Ella could take over. She continued checking on all of us whenever she was able to open her eyes and move her tail to let us know all was well.

In the end, from her cushy Costco throne, her breath belied a hunger born of wacky blood sugar swings and departing vapors from an empty tummy.  She just wouldn’t eat. Not even for me.