Dog Days Are to be Cherished

The Boston Herald

Her paws are more white than black these days, and her muzzle is white and the place on her belly where she loves to be scratched is all white, too. My dog is old.

She sleeps most of the day, waking only to bark at the mailman, to wag and woof at anyone who comes to the door, and to indulge in her favorite pastime, which is, of course, eating.

Molly loves food - all food. When I open the refrigerator, no matter if she is half a house away and in a dead sleep, she comes running. At least she tries to run. It's more of a limping kind of run lately, a lope, really, like Chester on the old western, "Gunsmoke." The leg she broke when she was a puppy is not much use to her anymore. Sometimes it gives out and she slips and falls. Damp days are the worst. This drought has been good for her.

Until the past year, whenever we left the house we would confine Molly to the kitchen and family room because when she was alone she would race upstairs and eat whatever she could fit in her mouth. Often she would climb the stairs, too, when we were home and watching TV, this plus-size Labrador retriever a study in grace and stealth when she had to be. She could noiselessly navigate past the doorbell's long brass chimes, which hang on the stairwell and which her tail strikes like clockwork at dawn every morning. Discarded pantyhose awaited in the trash upstairs. Perhaps someone had left a sock on the floor? The possibilities were too good to ignore. So Molly became a Mata Hari, lithe and fleet, but incredibly sneaky, too.

But she was forced to give up the stairs months ago, suddenly, after she got stuck up there in a thunderstorm. Her leg gave out and we had to help her back down.

She lies beside me now and I watch her breathe, her fat, sturdy body steadily heaving up and down. She scratches in her sleep and twitches and sighs and she does a few other things that aren't quite so endearing.

But I don't mind. I don't mind that her bladder isn't as dependable as it used to be. Or that when we go for walks, which is seldom, she's the one who begs to come home.

I love that's she's still here beside me, my dog and my companion. I love that every morning for 11 years she has greeted me with the enthusiasm of a lottery winner, never mind that she has won nothing, never mind that there are mornings when I don't greet her with glee.

I love that she understands the important things, that when I tell her Lauren is on the phone, she knows who Lauren is. That when I'm sad she senses it. And that when I whisper, "The boy is coming home," her tail wags.

I love my old dog. I love the sound of her bark and her hair that's always on the kitchen floor no matter how often I vacuum, and the dirt she drags in along with her bones. I love the way she slurps water and bites off the tops of carrots and I love the flat spots she has made in my garden and the flat spot she has made on the couch. I even love the scratches she's made in the new hardwood floor because I know, already, that they will always remind me of her.

My son and his wife got a dog. They live in New York City in a small apartment. They both work. The dog is a puppy ("A small German shepherd" - their description, not mine). Once a week, they take her to obedience class. And they walk her eight times a day, out the door, down the corridor, into the elevator, onto the street, up to the park, plastic bags in one pocket, treats in the other.

Why did they go and get a dog? people ask. Dogs are a responsibility, expensive and a lot of work.

But dogs are pretty wonderful, too. My old dog, Molly, is proof.