Molly: Tale Goes On

The Boston Herald

April 7, 1992

Ray McSoley called a month ago.

"How come you don't write about Molly anymore? Does she still jump on people? Is she still devouring the back steps? Does she still drool?"

McSoley trains dogs. He sent me his book, "Dog Tales" when we got Molly. I read the book, studied it, memorized it; I even tried to follow it.

"Yes, Molly still jumps on people," I told Mr. McSoley. "Yes, she still drools and as for the back steps - no, she doesn't eat them anymore but that's because they're practically gone."

A reader writes: "Your dog must be more than a year old now. How are you two getting along?"

We're getting along just fine, I write back. I talk to her and she listens, just like my kids listen, very attentively. Then when I stop talking she goes and does exactly what she wants.

For example, a few days ago I said, "Molly:" (This is to get her attention. McSoley says you must get a dog's attention.) "Do you want to go for a walk?" She raced to the door and started leaping like a circus poodle (a feat for a labrador retriever), snorting like a pig and barking like a seal. I said, "Look, Molly, if you're going to behave like this, we're not going anywhere. I want you to sit down and be quiet, do you understand?"

Only after I grabbed her by the collar, yanked hard and snarled, "SIT!" did she pretend to understand. "Molly, you are going to be a good girl," I said, looking her straight in the eyes. "You are going to heel. You are going to walk beside me and not drag me across the street like you did last week."

I then put on her leash, let go of her collar and was dragged out the door and across the street.

"Your dog Molly should be calming down by now," someone else writes. "Unless you've absolutely ruined her, she should be an obedient companion."

Unless I've ruined her? Have I ruined her? She's a companion, that's for sure. She's with me all day, every day - in my office, in my car, next to me on the couch at night. She's wonderful. She loves me. I love her. Do I get credit for this, for having it half right? Three-quarters right?

Because sometimes she obedient. Sometimes when I tell her to go downstairs, she does - if I go downstairs, too. Sometimes, when I say "Molly, come here," she will if I add, "Want a bagel?"

"You should just accept the fact that she isn't the brightest dog in the world," my husband says.

But Molly bright. She knows that if she puts her head in my lap and looks into my eyes, anytime, night or day, I will share what I'm eating, stop what I'm doing, put down the newspaper, hang up the phone and attend to her and her alone.

She knows that if she does a thing gradually enough, a thing she's not supposed to do, she'll eventually be allowed to do it. She wasn't allowed upstairs, but no one objected to her laying at the bottom of the steps. And then no one said very much when she started laying on the landing, three steps higher. And when she started spreading herself flat across the steps like a black, furry slide, well, she was so-o cute. And when she finally slithered to the top, she wasn't really upstairs because she kept her hind legs on the steps. And when she eased her entire body into the hall, then into the bedroom, then into the bed...

No, she's not dumb. It's me. I must have missed a beat, missed that special place between "She's just a puppy. She's too young to train," and "You can't teach an old dog new tricks."

Because now she is into habits. It's a habit to jump, chew, drool, beg, run when I say sit, bark when I say lie down, come when I say stay.

So I compensate. I speak her language. "Lie down," I say when I want her to bark. "Come here," I say when, I want her to stay.

It's a little like driving in England. It sounds a bit bizarre, but how quickly you get used to it.