Molly Will be Missed

The Boston Herald

She never bought me a gift. She never sent me a card. She never gave me a thing that I can touch and say, "See how she loved me."

And yet I know that she did. I loved her and she loved me, and it was a love affair.

The house is silent without her. How can silence roar? How can emptiness feel so huge? How can the lack of something fill every room? How can absence loom larger than presence?

She was a presence - in the kitchen, under my feet, under my desk, at the door, barking, sighing, lumbering, breathing, her tail wagging, her nails click-clicking on the hardwood floor.

Molly.

She was 6 weeks old when we got her, so new she was bandy legged, so small we had to carry her up the stairs. She was fresh and soft and cuddly and we loved her. It's easy to love a puppy.

But she was not the easiest of dogs. She ate everything - clothing included - and never learned that as difficult as it is to swallow a tube sock, expelling it is a lot harder.

Doctors joked about this. They joked about putting a zipper in her stomach. They joked all the way to the bank.

She demolished all our storm doors. It was a scene right out of a movie. She'd step back and then hurl herself like some character about to break down a door. "Stop" was a command she routinely ignored. "Stop." "No." "Come."

We loved her anyway.

I loved the heft of her and her smell and her sheer beauty. I loved her paws - a silly thing to love. And under her chin, where she first turned white. I loved her ears, how they flopped when she ran. And I loved her eyes, brown and soulful and big.

She left us in increments. I saw but I didn't. One day she got too old to jump up on people and that was a good thing. ("Down" was another command she couldn't quite grasp.) One day she stopped sneaking up stairs and eating things. Then she stopped sneaking up on the couch to sleep. One day she even stopped drooling and begging when we ate.

I took her for walks and she didn't tug anymore. I found that I was tugging at her. The walks got shorter. One day she barely made it home.

I thought - I hoped - that when the weather got better she would be better, too. That when the birds returned she would return to the dog she used to be.

But the sun and the birds didn't help. I opened the door Tuesday and said, "Molly. It's warm. Go on out. Do you hear the birds?" But she didn't go because she couldn't get down the steps, and she couldn't hear the birds because she could hardly hear me.

I count my blessings. I count all the years she was by my side. Thirteen years of waking up to the sound of her, to her smell and her warmth and her energy and her total, absolute love. I fed her. I let her in and out of the house. I kissed her, hugged her, brushed her, vacuumed around her, sang to her, took her to the vet, loved her.

I heard her, these past months, in the middle of the night, scuffing along, trying to get comfortable. She'd ease herself on the floor, then sigh when she landed, a sad sound, like the end of something. She ate her last meal lying down.

She hated when I left her. She hated suitcases.

"I'll be back, girl," I always said. And I always came back.

I keep expecting her to come back. I keep expecting to see her under the table, under my desk, at the back door, somewhere, anywhere, because she never left me.

The house feels hollow without her. I feel hollow. I don't know where dogs go when they die. But I can't imagine a heaven without her.