Molly at 13: It's Just a Stage

The Boston Herald

November 13, 1992

If she were a person, she'd be 13 now, a teenager, seeking her identity, testing boundaries, being a bit of a pain in the neck.

Her behavior in human terms is, therefore, perfectly normal. She is just going through a stage, I tell my husband who didn't buy the stage bit for his kids and now refuses to accept it for a dog.

She is totally out of control, he counters. And guess whose fault that is?

I shouldn't have fed her at the table. I shouldn't have allowed her to climb on my lap while I was eating at the table. I should never have said, "Oh, let her sleep on the couch, she's only a puppy." Or "It's cold in here. Someone get Molly a blanket." Or "They were only stairs, Bruce. You can rebuild them."

"She is not a smart dog," my husband says now. "Look at the backyard. There are tonic bottles all over the place. Look at the garage. She actually ate a rake. You tell her "no" and it means nothing. She doesn't understand a word you say."

Ah, but she does. She simply chooses, like most 13-year-olds, to ignore authority. You have to cajole her.

"Molly, come here," I beckon from the kitchen. Molly is in the family room, sprawled on the couch, as still as ceramic.

But when I say, "Molly, want a cookie?" she's beside me in a flash. The dog is a genius, but I'm the only one who knows it.

"Molly, want to go for a ride?" sends her flying to the door. Yet when I say, "Get in the back seat, Molly" she does the ceramic thing again. So I phrase it this way: "Molly, do you want a bagel?" This gets her attention. Then I say, "Get in the back seat." And she does.

"She does these things purely out of habit," my husband insists, adding that most of her habits are bad.

Granted, she has a few behavior problems. She jumps on people. (But only because she's excited to see them.) She barks at inaudible sounds. (A sign of a good protector.) She sneezes and drools. (She suffers from allergies.) She eats Kleenex and clothing. (She was weaned too early.) Plus she sheds. (Not her fault.)

"What is it you like about this dog?" friends and a few grumpy family members constantly ask.

What is it I like about her? I like how when I give her a cup of Dog Chow she doesn't sigh and say, "What? This stuff again? Don't you have any imagination?" She actually gets excited. She actually wags her tail.

I like how she doesn't even complain when I run out of milk and have to mix the Dog Chow with water instead. She still devours her food.

I like how she never argues with me or disagrees or corrects or looks embarrassed because I've said the wrong thing. I like how she never groans that her hair's a mess, or says I have nothing to wear, or asks to borrow my best sweater.

I love how she doesn't hog the TV remote control and isn't obsessed with sports and doesn't shout when she's watching hockey, "Come here! Look! You have to see this play."

I love how when I walk out of the house to empty the rubbish, she's thrilled when I come back.

Molly is so grateful for everything. I go to the store and bring her a bone and it's never, "I wish you had gotten me a Cheweez." I brush her back and she doesn't say, "Hey, you forgot my ears."

She never asks me to take her shopping. She doesn't expect a birthday party. She won't walk around with a grumpy face if, on Christmas morning, there's nothing for her under the tree. She is content with the smallest of pleasures.

Right now she's lying under my desk. It's way past lunch time but she isn't antsy. She isn't begging me to make her a grilled cheese sandwich. She isn't saying, "Aren't you finished writing yet?" And she won't want me to drive her anywhere later.

I pat her head and she sighs, like any 13-year-old. But it's not because I've bothered her. She sighs simply because she's content.