I first met Molly the Wonder Dog about twelve years ago. I had exited a difficult marriage and found, much to my surprise, a delightful brown-eyed mother of two who thought I was charming.
Seriously, she did.
Anyway, Karen had two children – Sara and Clayton – a couple of cats with questionable reputations and Molly the Wonder Dog.
Molly wasn’t sure about me at first. She kept her distance, and looked at me me with eye of skeptical reporter. For a while, she watched every step I took when I ventured over to Karen’s house.
I understood this. Karen was a single mother with two small children. Molly was Karen’s dog and Molly was in charge of security, a job she took very seriously.
I was the outsider. And, because Karen shares the same DNA as St. Francis of Assisi, I knew that should I stay with her Molly and the other animals that crossed the threshold, would become part of our family.
So Karen and I began to date. But it wasn’t until Molly witnessed the first of many kisses between Karen and myself that she began to accept my presence. I began to spend a great deal of time at Karen’s house and Molly, after a while, got used to my scent.
Our relationship improved after the first family cookout.
You see Karen really doesn’t like to cook. Trust me, she’d rather watch television, sample what is going to be served, gab with long-lost friends, or redirect the occasional wayward child, than spend time in the kitchen.
Molly and I both understood this.
So I became the chef of the family, partly because I love to cook, and partly out of necessity. Still, being with Karen was easy and I was happy to claim the kitchen.
This arrangement worked out well with all the parties involved – especially Molly the Wonder Dog.
The first time I went out, dumped the charcoal and lit the grill, Molly announced that she would patrol the back yard and protect me from the Grill Monsters.
I didn’t realize Grill Monsters existed until Molly informed me of their presence and their ability to disrupt any cookout, causing general mayhem and destruction.
“The only way to deal with Grill Monsters,” Molly told me, via several yips and tail wags, “was to constantly be on patrol and bark very, very loud.”
So Molly went on patrol. She marched around the yard, occasionally glancing back at me to make sure I knew what she was doing and keeping the Grill Monsters at bay.
Of course, for this service I was expected to pay. Since the first cookout (there have been many, many more since then) involved lots of hotdogs, Molly and I decided that three to five hotdogs (the ones that didn’t pass the Chef’s rigorous inspection) would be hers.
Five slightly burned hotdogs later both Molly and I were satisfied. The Grill Monsters stayed back, the back yard was safe, and we both got our share of hotdogs.
After that Molly became my friend.
She didn’t push. She didn’t argue and she was always a lady. She knew when I’d had a shitty day and she knew, instinctively, when her presence was needed.
She was also the smartest dog I’d ever met.
Once, about a year after Karen and I started dating, Karen had to have some plumbing work done at her house. A plumber was called. The appointment made. The plumber came to the house and began working but, for some reason, Molly didn’t like the guy.
She paced. She snarled and she stomped around the house, ever watching. At one point, the plumber went outside and then returned through the back door, instead of coming in through the front.
Molly wasn’t happy about this and stopped the man in his tracks. I believe ugly words were exchanged and then Molly did something most unexpected: she bit him.
Understand that Molly never needed to bite anyone. Sure she would scowl, snarl and bark, but she rarely ever actually carried through on her threat.
Until that day.
She chomped on the plumber’s leg and shortly thereafter the guy left.
A few years later the subject came up and Karen told me she felt ‘uneasy’ around the plumber. I think Molly must have sensed trouble because she made sure he didn’t stay.
In 2005 Karen and I (and our combined three children) became a family. We were married and then moved into a large three-bedroom-with-a-back-yard in northwest Oklahoma City.
During this time there were several occasions that I was out of town but I never really worried because I knew Molly the Wonder Dog was standing guard. With her around, Karen and the kids were safe.
I was sure of it.
And so our lives – with Molly the Wonder Dog at the center – progressed.
•
Sometime during the spring of 2006, Karen and I decided to take the kids camping. My father owned some land just west of Yale, where he and my mother live. Karen and I thought this would be a great chance for my kids to experience the great outdoors.
Of course, Molly went along.
We sat up camp and Molly began to explore. She told us repeatedly about the coyotes, the owls, the bulls in the field that sat next to my father’s land, and the other critters that called my father’s 40 acres home.
Molly also warned us about the turtles.
Over the course of the weekend Molly decided there were too many turtles surrounding us, so she would gather the little guys up and bring down the hill.
I’m sure that the turtles (who really weren’t bothering anyone) had decided that somewhere along their turtle lives they had offended the mighty Turtle God who was expressing his displeasure with the help of a black and white Border Collie.
And, I’m almost positive the turtles were very offended to be gripped in Molly’s mouth, slobbered over, transported over rocky terrain and dumped unceremoniously in front of the campfire.
Molly, however, was quite pleased with herself.
And so, in addition to her many titles (Noble Beast and Family Protectorate, to name a few) we honored Molly with a new moniker: Hunter of Turtles. She accepted this honor with a wag of her stubby tail, a quick yip and a smile.
Over the course of my marriage to Karen, Molly has been there. I would see her in the morning, both of us yawning and preparing for the day. During the evenings, she’d update me on her activities and remind me that the homestead was, indeed, safe.
After the birth of Zachary, our fourth child, Molly seemed a little more subdued. Perhaps she sensed that Zach was fragile or that Karen and I were frightened for our newborn son.
Whatever the reason, Molly wanted us to know that things would be okay. The day we brought Zach home from the hospital, Molly met us at the door. I sat Zach (ensconced in his baby carrier) on the sofa and returned to help Karen out of the car.
When we walked back in, Molly was on the couch looking Zach over. Karen and I watched and smiled as Molly gave Zachary several long sniffs and eyed him skeptically for several moments.
Then, softly, she licked his head.
It was at that moment that I knew Molly and Zach had become friends. Later, Molly also discovered another benefit of living with Zach in the house: babies drop food.
And Zach was a master food dropper.
Molly would station herself under the table, near Zach’s highchair and wait for her version of Manna from Heaven. Zach was happy to oblige (to this day I think they had somehow cut a deal to ensure the stuff Zach didn’t like ended up on the floor).
As Zach got older, we knew he would have to return to the hospital for another heart surgery. Molly seemed to understand this, too, because she was extra gentle with Zach and very patient with both Karen and myself.
She was also there during one of the darkest nights of my life.
Zach was still in the hospital, recovering from surgery. Karen was with him. The kids were with their other parents and on that particular evening I found myself alone at home – angry, frightened and frustrated.
That night, God and I had a knockdown, drag-out fight. I wanted to know why he would let Zachary suffer and why my son had to have his tiny chest cut open.
Filled with fear and rage and just enough alcohol to be stupid, I circled the living room, cussing the Almighty.
Molly sat quietly in the corner until I was exhausted.
But later that night, after I crawled into bed, I felt her next to me. She knew I needed comfort and she was there, loyal and unassuming. Because she was there, I was able to sleep and face another day.
You see, few things frightened Molly.
Monsters, earthquakes, tornadoes and even the weird people we lived next door to for a while didn’t bother her at all.
But she didn’t like thunder.
When the thunder began to roll, Molly was certain the end was near and she’d tremble and cover her head. During those times Karen couldn’t comfort her, the kids were on their own, and no one would talk her back from the edge.
Except me.
I’d pat the bed and Molly, shaking, would crawl next to me. I’d cover her with a blanket and scratch her behind her ears and slowly her trembling would stop. Somehow I made the fear go away.
That was my part of the bargain. Thunder offered the only time that I needed to be in charge. She relinquished her role as protect of the family and she looked to me to make the thunder go away.
I was happy to oblige.
•
Molly the Wonder Dog died Saturday.
It was cold and rainy and wet and Molly’s health had been failing for a long time. She was almost blind and moved slowly -- the times of hopping backward at the sound of the supper dish being filled now long gone.
And so, as we humans are often forced to do, we said goodbye to our beloved Wonder Dog. Karen held her in her arms as Molly passed from this Earth to Valhalla, peacefully and embraced by the one who loved her.
Karen sobbed, her beautiful face red from the pain and the tears, and Zachary, who had his own unique bond with Molly, was almost inconsolable. I tried to comfort both, but over the course of the gray, rain-soaked day, I, too, have struggled. Molly the Wonder Dog was my friend. She protected my family. She barked when needed and once in a while, if necessary, she’d bite.
But there were times that Molly, like myself, just wanted peace.
She'd shut out the noisy kids and join me in the back yard. I’d sit at the picnic table while Molly would look for a warm, sun-drenched spot beneath the sky. Both of us would be surrounded by the smell of fresh mowed grass and honeysuckle. On more than one occasion I’d see her glance, usually briefly, at the wayward turtle trundling under the fence down the hill toward the creek.
And then, Molly would wag her stubby tail, lie down, point her belly skyward, and smile.
And there, beneath a blue Oklahoma sky, Molly and I would find what we were both seeking.
Comments