by Sue Merryman
She was a tiny thing, all soft puppy fur and liquid brown eyes; the runt of the litter by a landslide. Born hours after the rest of her brothers of sisters, seemingly stuck in the womb, her front legs never developed fully. Because of her small size, the breeders were only too happy to get rid of her, at a bargain price, after she was weaned. That’s how I came to fall in love with a happy black lab I named Molly.
Training her was a challenge, what with my busy work schedule and her puppy-length attention span. At first it seemed that she would never get the hang of going on the paper, and never stop chewing on the carpeting in the hallway. But, just when my patience was wearing thin, she would tilt her head knowingly, and wag her tail, and of course, all would be forgiven. Eventually, she became a model member of the household.
She certainly wasn’t a prototypical lab. Her legs were just a little too short, and her chest a bit to wide, perhaps, we thought, to compensate for her big heart. Her tail never seemed to stop wagging, and although she had the spirit of a protector, anyone welcomed into our home was warmly greeted with sniffs and kisses.
I never realized how much I needed her until after the breakup of a relationship, when I found myself alone in a new area of the city. In those first few months, Molly became my alarm clock, fitness instructor, and ambassador of goodwill. Her soft urgings and the thump of her tail on the floor awakened me each morning, and we lumbered downstairs for a trip outside. Her need for exercise got me out the door each evening for a walk around the block. Once out, she greeted each person we came in contact with, seemingly ignoring other animals in favor of their human companions. The questions and comments were inevitable, things like ”What type of dog is that?” and “What a funny looking lab!” But also inevitable was the way each person was taken with her, even those professing not to be “dog people”.
Quite simply, Molly loved everyone, and as near as I could tell, everything. But, she especially loved to eat. Her voracious appetite was the stuff of legends in our family, as was her near constant consumption of water. However, she neither ate nor drank gracefully. Her paw-tapping “food dance”, performed as I prepared her meal, was quickly followed by an awkward attempt to “sit” at my prompting. From the moment she shoved her nose into the bowl, she rarely came up for air. Once finished, she would belch loudly and then lick her metal dish so vigorously it would bang into the wall, denting both the dish and the plaster. Water was another story. Perhaps because of her lab-like jowls, she never learned to drink without showering herself, the floor, and anything else in the general vicinity. A good mop was essential when Molly was around.
Visits to my parent’s farm in rural Central Ohio were like a vacation for her, with over one hundred acres of grass, rodents and water for her to explore. True to her lab heritage, she loved to swim, so the stream that ran through the back section of the property was of particular interest to her. On warm summer days, she would sit impatiently at the front door, waiting to be released. Once outside, she bolted for the back field with her familiar sideways gate--you always expected her back legs to catch up with her shorter front ones. Her disappearance down the hill would be followed by a large splash as she hurtled herself into the water. If you made the mistake of following her down to the stream, she would greet you by exiting the water, tearing across the field, and shaking all over you. Then she was off, to check out the compost pile (her favorite midday snack) and gently harass the barn cats, accompanied by my folks’ 100 pound lab mix, Scout. They would return later, dirty, wet and tired, to sleep soundly on the living room floor. Molly would dream fitfully, her legs moving as if she were in full gallop, and her soft grunts echoing throughout the quiet house.
For nearly eleven years, she was my friend and companion. As she got older, she moved a bit slower, but despite some gray hair on her muzzle, she never lost her puppy-dog looks. Because I knew her best, I knew that something wasn’t right when she developed a cough that wouldn’t go away, despite antibiotics. Finally, a chest X-ray revealed the surprising reason—a congenital defect that was impacting her ability to breathe, and for which there was no remedy. She had been living on borrowed time her whole life. Perhaps she knew how lucky she was all along, and that was why she seemed to approach life with such enthusiasm. And perhaps there is a valuable lesson in that for all of us.
Molly died on New Years Eve. My sorrow is enormous, but it is tempered by over a decade of cherished memories. People ask if there will ever be another dog in my life, and I answer an unequivocal “yes’. Of course, there will never be another Molly. But as any true animal lover knows, the unconditional love and loyalty one gets from and feels for a precious pet is almost indescribable. They enrich your life, and what you gain is no less satisfying simply because it is sometimes accompanied by sadness.
So it was with Molly. In the end, I hope she knew how very much she was loved and appreciated. Her place in my heart is secure. And as for my memories, when I close my eyes I will always picture her, tail wagging, brown eyes focused on mine, anxious to charge outside, to optimistically pursue squirrels and rabbits she will never catch. And, I think, how very blessed I am to have been the recipient of her love.