MOLLY THOUGHTS

“There is no better, nor more loyal friend, than a good hound” …The Emperor of San Francisco, from A Dirty Job, Christopher Moore

           Last week was a pretty depressing week, unless of course you were a member of the Republican National Committee, which in a brilliant combination of new found commitment to diversity and a willingness to believe anything, unanimously declared that the Tooth Fairy was going to be the party’s vice presidential nominee in 2024.  For the Mitman/Wilson household, the daily drumbeat of bad news managed to take some of the fun out of a visit to Key West, particularly when we learned that our daughter Kristin’s family finally had to do what they had hoped they would never have to do, put their dog Molly down.  In the end, the ravages of old age left them no choice, but that fact didn’t take any of the anguish away.  Molly was a yellow lab, a big, goofy bundle of fur, with a nuclear tail, floppy ears and eyes that could have melted even Mitch McConnell’s heart.  And although she lived at Chris and Kristin’s house, she was a big part of the entire extended family.  Everybody loved Molly, and she loved everybody back.  One of the best parts of every family get together was Molly’s welcome, a head wagging, tail thrashing, joyful dance.  She was a bright light in all of our lives, and like her best friend Chris, a teacher. 

     Molly taught us about happiness.  Every time she came to visit us in Virginia, she would wriggle out of the car and give us an abbreviated version of her welcome dance, then make a beeline for the deck where, in her eagerness, she practically fell down the steps to the dock.  She would pause at the bottom of the steps for a moment of delicious anticipation, her head sweeping back and forth looking out at the water, remembering how great this was going to be, and then she began to run.  This was no ordinary run.  This was more of a giant galoomph, with her feet going mostly forward, but also kind  of side to side, picking up speed as she got closer to the end of the dock.  And then came the jump, a leap of pure delight, her whole body fully extended, front paws as far forward as they could go, head straight up, ears swept back and a big dog smile on her face.  She would belly flop into the water, and then swim back to land, and do it all over again.  To me, that jump was the closest thing to pure joy I have ever seen. 

         She taught our granddaughter Aleesia not to be afraid.  At the age of two, Aleesia had the misfortune of being badly frightened by a dog, which resulted in an absolutely overwhelming cynophobia.  No matter what type, no matter what size, she was terrified anytime a dog came into her sight, and that included Molly.  Whenever Molly joined a family get together, Aleesia would take one look at her, and start to shiver in fear.  We all were aware of Aleesia’s fear, and everyone tried their best to keep her and Molly far apart, but Molly was nothing if not the friendliest dog ever born, so almost every family meeting included an episode of temporary, but very real, hysteria.  Brothers, sisters, cousin, aunt, uncle and parents all tried to convince Aleesia that Molly was a special dog who would never hurt her, but Aleesia was having none of our baloney.  But she believed Molly.  Over several years you could see Aleesia’s gradual, and painfully halting, willingness to let Molly get just a little closer.  You could also see that Molly knew she would have to take extra care because Aleesia was a special case.  And then one day, again in Virginia, we were hanging around in the kitchen, and Molly was walking around smacking everything and everybody with her incredibly enthusiastic tail.  As she came around the corner of the kitchen counter, she came face to face with Aleesia.  This time Aleesia didn’t run and Molly stopped wagging her tail and didn’t move . . . and then Aleesia held out a trembling hand, and petted Molly on her back.  It was a small and very welcome miracle. 

      Mostly, Molly taught us a little something about love.  Not the love that people have for their pets.  More about the love people have for each other, in so many different shades and circumstances.  We loved watching Chris and Kristin with their daughter Maddy when she was little climbing all over Molly, who patiently endured these daily assaults with nothing more than an occasional long snuffling sigh of parental tolerance.  We laughed as Kristin rolled her eyes when she tried to command Molly to do something, and Molly would just ignore her as she always did, not with any animosity, but just a simple “oh, she doesn’t really mean that” look on her face.  Cathy and I can smile at each other when we think about how Maddy will remember Molly, and us, many years from now.   In some mysterious way, the affection that we all felt for that dog was transferred to us, and among us, whenever we were in her presence.  We were so lucky to have had her as part of our lives.  Godspeed, good hound.