St. Molly - 1. St. Molly

St. Molly

With guest appearances by Rocky, her boon friend, and Fluffy, her mentor

commentary by her walker

We had a game. I’d say, “Molly come.” And she wouldn’t come. I’d say, “Molly come.” And she wouldn’t come. I’d say, “Molly, don’t come.” And she’d just look at me. And I’d say, “Good Molly.”

St. Molly is now running with St. Fluff – and breathing easy.

Fluff was, maybe, just a bit more polite. “She taught me to say, “Get the duck. Get the duck. Get the duck.” And when I’d said it often and well enough, she’d take pity on me and actually get the damned thing.

Fluff earned her sainthood by having to live with me and slowly teach me about dogs. Molly was born that way. She was just under eight weeks old when she moved in. She was born late on January 1st and came home on the evening of my birthday, February 24th.

My husband, Tom, had seen her at our vet’s house, perhaps when Molly was as young as two weeks old. She was the smallest of our vet’s ten puppy showdog litter but couldn’t be shown because she was white. But she was the second most elegant of the group.

Tom had called our vet in early January, soon after we came back from Reno after visiting his sister and her family for Christmas. Fluffy had died in November, and Tom decided it was time for another dog. He was simply asking our vet, Dawn, for a good place to rescue a Border Collie.

We were told Fluff was a Lab-Spaniel mix, but she looked like a Border Collie, so that’s what we thought we wanted. And Tom had already persuaded me we were getting two dogs. I fought that because we were both still working outside the house, but sometimes, you don’t argue with Tom.

Dawn told Tom where we should look and then later that day called back and said, "I know you’re not looking for a Boxer, but I have one that I think would be perfect for you." A lot of people wanted the then-unnamed Molly, including Dawn’s daughter, but their family already had enough animals.

Tom came to me and said, "I know you want a Border Collie, but..." and he told me the rest of the story. "I said, "Fluff was a gift, and she worked out terrifically. At least, go look at this dog, and see if you like her."

It was more a question of whether the dog liked him, because soon after Thanksgiving – Fluff died almost a month before – Tom and I looked at some Border Collies or close mixes at a local shelter. There was one maybe four-month old that I was ready to take, but he wasn’t friendly enough to Tom.

Well, Tom loved Molly immediately, and she loved him, so that was set. Then we had to wait six weeks for her to be old enough to bring home. He named her Molly because friends of his had a dog by that name some years earlier, and Tom always liked the name. Coincidentally, it was my great-grandmother’s name, my dad’s grandmother on his mother’s side, and he grew up with her living in their apartment.

Our vet said if we wanted two dogs that we should wait a couple of years, so Molly would be mature enough to raise the pup. Also, we should get a male. That was our plan until eight months later when, in late October, our friend Cindy called to say she had another white Boxer for us. Now we weren’t looking for a white Boxer because we’d planned to wait two years and then, maybe, get a male Border Collie pup. "But I said, "Oh, what the hell. Let’s go look," and we took Molly with us. If she didn’t get along with the pup, there was no way we were bringing him home.

They got along at the store that was sponsoring the adoption day, and the rescue agency that was acting as intermediary said it would have to send a rep to look at our home before consent was given. So the rep and the current owner, Mike – a 25-year-old banker who was moving in with his girlfriend who already had a dog and wasn’t allowed two in her apartment – came to look at our house and watch Molly and Rocky play wildly in our fenced-in front yard. Afterward, when Molly and the already named Rocky were lying on the grass, panting, Mike said he’d never seen Rocky that worn out. So he thought this was a great match.

Rocky was just over six months old, and we hadn’t waited the two years Dawn suggested, but I don’t think either Tom or I were going to let him go. At least, he was male, and Mike thought Rock was a full Boxer, though he’d only seen Rocky’s mother. And he wasn’t an elegant show dog, like Molly. He was a canine Popeye the Sailorman.

Molly never really tamed Rock, and we never tried to make her, so we had a pair of dogs with equal authority. And we all lived happily for almost eight years. Still, I never expected Rock to live out his natural life.

Mike had been living with his mother, so Rock had been crated during the day and never completely socialized. He was great with people but less good with other dogs. Once, when he was less than one, on his first visit with me to a dog park, he tore across the field at full speed accidentally rammed a dog twice his size in the ribs, flipped over him, knocked the dog down, and collapsed on the ground himself.

The dog’s owner angrily raced over to me, yelling, “You killed my dog! You killed my dog!” and I was ready to agree and hand him all my credit cards. There was no point in risking a law suit. Then Rocky scrambled up, the other dog did the same, and they happily sniffed each other’s butts and scampered off together. I quickly caught and leashed Rock, found Molly – who was grazing amiably with her friends – apologized again to the dog’s owner, and got out of there.

At least, Mike slept with Rocky at night, so that gave Rock lots of affection. And Mike and Rock walked daily, every evening after Mike’s work and before he visited his girlfriend. I think Rock also rode on Mike’s motorcycle occasionally because, in his first few years with us, Rock used to bark at both motor- and bicycles.

Still, even now, Rock would love to slip out of our house and tear around the neighborhood. He’s done that a half-dozen times over the years, and no amount of whistling and shouting “Food” – his safe word – will lure him from his adventures. Finally, he’ll always come home, because he seems to know how easy he has it. And that’s where Food is.

While Rock’s off running, Molly stays home, looking out the low window onto the driveway and waiting while Tom and I shout. At least, yelling “Rock!” is better than yelling “Fluffy.” If Molly happens to get loose at the same time, she’ll run after him, but not to be free. Instead, she’s barking in reprimand, even though she knows she has no authority. They both may be equally stubborn, but she tries to make him see sense.

Boxers aren’t stupid, but they only come in forty-seventh on the Hundred Most Intelligent Dogs list. It’s because when asked to do anything, they mainly seem to seriously consider, as if saying “Why?”

While younger, if they weren’t given something more constructive to do, Molly and Rocky also delighted in inadvertently destroying things. We have a picture of two white pups, playing in what looks like snow, spread across our living room. Actually, it’s the feathered remains of what used to be a down pillow.

Also early in their lives together, I took them to another dog park, and someone accidentally left open both the double safety gates at the very far end. Rocky quickly found the opening and zipped out, with teacher Molly just behind him, yapping. As they dashed along the busy street, I could picture them dead and bloody and me divorced because of it. But having completed their several hundred yard dash, they unexpectedly darted over to me, happily panting. I quickly corralled them into our truck.

Rocky’s foolishly not afraid of cars, so I’ve always worried that one would get him. I’m still not sure one won’t. Lately, because we know Boxers only live about ten years, we’ve been steeling ourselves for both their deaths in a year-or-two. But Molly’s lung cancer snuck up on us.

It shouldn’t have: almost half of all Boxers die of cancer, though Dawn said this was her first case of lung cancer. She kept comparing Molly to her own, human, father, who died of the disease. “They have many of the same symptoms,” Dawn said. The biggest one was difficulty breathing.

But it all started with a limp, and we figured Molly had something in her paw. When we couldn’t find it, we took her to Dawn, who couldn’t find anything, either. When the limp got worse, Dawn took x-rays, and when they showed nothing, she suggested it could be a torn muscle or ligament – something that wouldn’t photograph.

Molly went to physical therapy. What? Yep: Acupuncture. Cold laser treatments. Magic herbs. When a couple of sessions of that didn’t do anything besides give Molly a “Spa Day,” we went back to Dawn. “There may be something we’re missing,” she nearly apologized. She always felt close to Molly, since Molly’s mother was Dawn’s dog. Whatever was wrong, Dawn couldn’t find it. Though finally an x-ray of Molly’s lungs came back slightly clouded.

A specialist Dawn recommended thought “Maybe Valley Fever,” particular to southern Arizona, where we have a sometime Christmas vacation home. A week later, when Molly tested negative for that and other fungal growths, a second radiologist looked at her ct scan and thought he noticed a glimmer of the tiniest lung cancer. After two months, it was finally showing up.

“She can go at any time,” the new vet unfortunately said. So we brought Molly home, to be comfortable. And she was, for another week, before Dawn made a house call.

Molly died about a foot from where Fluff did. Fluff’s picture was watching from the piano, and Molly’s, still unframed, now lies on the dining table, with the collar and tags she only wore outside our house. Tom had decided her fur was too thin to take the steady rubbing.

If Rock had gone before Molly, it might have been easier on Tom and me – because there was always that sense that he would. But this is just hard. We’ve also been around them more. With Fluff we were both still out, working, and she was raised to be independent. We took our longest single trip with her, around the country. Though cumulatively, we traveled more with Molly and Rock.

For another thing, Fluff didn’t sleep with us. I can’t tell you why now. She also wasn’t allowed on furniture. She had a mat or two around the house, but mainly, she used the one in the living room, in front of our rarely used fireplace, during the day. At night, she slept on the carpeted floor, at Tom’s side of the bed.

Towards the end, when she was sick, she slept under the White Sage bush in the backyard. There may still be a hole there that she hollowed out to cool her body. I planted the sage and a dozen other native varieties when I was headed off to that freelance job. But when I came back, only two had survived. So I planted some more. But even for small, low water use bushes, they had trouble surviving in the clay soil of our backyard. It seemed best as a litter box.

Fluff spent her last days and nights under the sage, and we finally knew she wanted to leave, permanently, when she crawled to Tom’s side of the bed again one morning. By that time, we were leaving the backyard door open, so she could easily reach us.

Soon after Molly arrived, when I was taking her with me on errands and letting her ride, harnessed, in the passenger seat, a woman came up to me at a ATM. “Is that a white Boxer?” she asked.
“Yes,” I confirmed, ready to explain why they seemed so rare – as I suddenly had been, often – when the woman headed me off.
“Don’t let her sleep with you,” she nicely began, then gently continued. “When I saw you driving, I had my husband follow your car, just so I could tell you that.”
She pointed toward what I guessed was her husband, sitting in their family car. He limply waved and grimaced-smiled, as if apologizing for his wife’s intrusion.
“We won’t let her sleep with us,” I promised. “Our last dog didn’t, and there’s no reason to change.”
At that point, Molly was still being housebroken, so she was spending nights at the foot of our bed in her comfortable crate.
“The thing is they’re so cute when they’re puppies,” the woman went on. “You just can’t help yourself. But then they grow and take up the whole bed. By now, my husband sleeps on one edge, I sleep on the other, and our dog stretches horizontally between us.”
She pulled out her phone and showed me, not a picture of her bed, but of a large white Boxer.

I thanked her again, smiled at her husband, and when I told Tom the story over dinner, he simply laughed. Still, several years later, after Molly and Rock had outgrown their need for sleeping crates – the doors of which had long been left open – I came home from a two-week trip on family business and discovered Molly and Rocky sleeping with Tom. Some time earlier, they’d been permitted on furniture. But that had just evolved.
“When did this happen?” I asked Tom, pointing towards our bed.
“We missed you,” he simply replied. It was the first time I’d been away for that long since Molly and Rocky arrived.
“Well, I’m back,” I said, smiling.
It didn’t matter. The dogs stayed. And though neither of them ever got as big as the dog on the woman’s cell phone, together Molly and Rocky weighed 110 pounds. And though we had a wide, very comfortable bed, my long-time pleasure of sleeping was slightly diminished. Still, I’m not sure I lost in that trade.

So we’ll have to see what happens with Rock. He’s obviously not leaving our bed, where he politely stretches towards the bottom and can be easily urged elsewhere if he’s using my pillow when I want it. In contrast, Molly would snuggle herself against Tom and steadily inch him towards where Fluffy slept on the floor. But will Rock get a younger companion? Finally become him the alpha dog he probably thinks he is? And with another Boxer or a Border Collie or what? Though definitely a female.

But Dawn said one of her Boxers lived for thirteen years, and though Tom was considering letting Rock stay with us alone, another five years would be a long time without a live-in friend. He has a red laser light he loves to chase. Molly could never see it, so she’d just bark at him like he was nuts as he dashed around the house or backyard. But a red dot’s not the same thing as having a companion. Meanwhile, I’ll walk Rock down the block to see Missy, another Boxer his age who Molly and Rock have often played with.

Rock was just sleeping on our bed, where he sometimes is at this hour, though he often goes there well after Molly. The rest of the time, he sleeps on one of our couches, waiting for me to finally turn off the office light, so he can cadge one last snack. Tonight, our bedroom is the coolest room in the house, so that’s probably why he’s there.

It’s untypically hot out, and dark now, but we just took a walk. Fluff and I walked to a particular telephone pole, just over a tenth of a mile away, at the far edge of the decent streetlight. We largely walked at night, starting when she was four, when I was headed off for a distant job and wanted to make sure we were bonded – I’d only been living with Tom for a year. When I quickly came back – partly because I missed Tom too much and realized I was wrong in thinking I could still freelance – Fluff and I continued our evening walks. And we did that until shortly before she died, at twelve-and-half. She never had a dog door but also rarely used the street for a john. She’d wait until after our walk, and then I’d let her into the backyard.

Rock walked with me, got the accustomed snack when we came home, and then went to bed again, where he’s sleeping. Tom’s out, working late, and Rocky and I have been walking without Molly for at least two weeks, so he’s probably used to it.

Rocky and I have our own walking ritual. When it’s time to go out, I get my baseball cap and sunglasses, and, in recognition, he wags his stumpy tail. Then I get his leash and say, “Let’s go,” which means something different from “Rocky come.” But instead of coming to me as I sit on the couch with his leash, he dashes playfully around the living room, pretending he doesn’t want to walk at all. At that point, Molly – leashed and already waiting – would just look at him, no longer wasting energy in a bark. Finally, Rock trots up to me, and I slip his walking collar over his head. It’s doubly connected to his leash, with the regular hook and a reinforcing carabiner, because he once broke off a weaker hook and scared the new owner of a unneutered puppy Rocky just wanted to sniff. The last thing Rocky and I do is clean his face – his brown tears sometimes stain his white fur. Molly often erased the marks with her tongue, but I do it with my thumbs, and he obligingly licks them to provide lubrication.

But Molly can't help groom Rocky anymore, so that will be another adjustment for him. When she was away last Friday and Saturday nights, at the hospital, Rock seemed to take that well, not going to the window all the time, looking for her. One of our friends, Judy, who’s spent much of her life working with dogs, thinks that may be a guide. Another friend, Beate, says Rock can still smell Molly’s scent around the house, and that should comfort him. But when Molly doesn't come back, ever, Rocky may start to wonder – and worry. If dogs can really do that. And he can't look at Molly’s pictures, to soothe himself, the way Tom and I can.

That’s what I did this afternoon: I couldn’t bear not to see her. I’m sure that will ease, since I walk past Fluff’s picture on the piano dozens of times a day without noticing. Though when her almost life-sized photo popped up last year as the wallpaper on a computer we rarely use at our Tucson house, it almost knocked me out. The dogs aren’t the only ones getting older, and, like my father, I’m stupidly sentimental.

So: Fluffy. Molly. Rock. Rock, paper, scissors. Rocket to the moon. Rockwell. Rockstar. Rockford. He has a dozen nicknames. Molly had none. Well, not by me: Tom often called her Princess. And I foolishly was so embarrassed by the name Fluffy – bestowed by our then-three-year-old neighbor whose mother was in pet rescue – I called her Doggo throughout our life together. But I learned.