Digging, especially for a grave, is a workout that no one looks forward to. Normally I would have had a brother or father there lending a hand, but they both happened to be at work, so the job was left to my weeping mother and myself.
The idea to call her Molly had been my idea. I can’t remember much else from the day my mom brought our first puppy home. I think that was because my brother and I were so caught up in playing with her that we didn’t notice anything else. But I do remember us all trying to pool our best name ideas together and come to an agreement. Of course the generic food names like muffin, chocolate, or brownie came up, but the final idea came from me. I don’t remember telling anyone in my family this, I was probably too embarrassed, but I got the idea of Molly from a girl that I liked in my class named Polly. I thought of Polly then switched things up to Molly so no one would ever get suspicious and figure out my secret crush. Everyone immediately loved the name Molly, and that’s what we decided on.
Molly was starting to look sluggish about two weeks before her actual death. Before she got sick, she would get restless and abruptly jump up and run around the living room, den, dining room, then back to the living room over and over again. Early in her life we decided that her purpose for doing this was to knock someone over, and usually she was successful. I hadn’t seen her run like that for a few days, and she stayed hidden either underneath the kitchen table or next to the couch in the corner of the room.
I could tell that something was wrong and I was trying to get my dad to agree to take her to the vet. He liked the dog, but really the only reason he adopted her was because we had been begging him for six months straight. To Dad, Molly wasn’t necessarily worth the money it would take to get her checked out and fixed up. So he told me he thought it was too soon, and that he didn’t even really see what I was noticing. That could have been true, I was the closest to Molly, and I guess it was possible that I was seeing things no one else could.
So I waited to see if my dog was going to improve. I tried to convince myself after a few days of no recovery that maybe she was just getting old. She had always been energetic and even frantic at times, so maybe she was just slowing down, she was, after all, about 10 years old.
The behavior change seemed too abrupt for me though, only a week ago she was barreling through the living room so hard my mom had to throw a banana at her to stop her momentum so we could pass through to the bathroom. A sixty-five pound dog can be a formidable force when running full speed through a relatively small house.
That wasn’t the only thing that changed. Molly was always irrationally excited to have visitors in the house. Like most dogs, they just wanted all the attention, so she would jump up and throw her paws around their waist like she was trying to waltz with them. This was of course a “no-no,” but we were never able to break her of the habit. We actually quit trying after a while. Now she just remained hidden under the kitchen table or next to the couch in the corner of the room.
Finally the night came, it had become so bad that everyone in the family had begun noticing something was wrong. My dad agreed to load her up in the truck the next morning and drive her into town the see the vet. That was good news, but a nasty acidic and heavy feeling was telling me that she didn’t even have that long. I was in the living room watching late night movies after everyone had gone to bed and surprisingly Molly slowly crept up from her hiding place to snuggle up with me on the floor. We lied like that for a few hours, but she didn’t move often. Her rising and falling chest was the only indication to me that she was still alive.
After I had my fill of old movies like “The Fifth Element” and “Mrs. Doubtfire,” I decided to take Molly to the back room where she normally slept. She wouldn’t move. Picking her up was difficult, but I finally managed it by lifting with my back and not my legs. While walking towards the backroom her bowels emptied on my arm, but I didn’t care, I was carrying my puppy to her deathbed; plus I don’t think she even noticed. Once I sat her down and cleaned us both up, I sat with her a while and said my good-bye with a kiss on her head and a quick scruff of her floppy ears.
The next morning she was cold.