A Letter to Molly

A LETTER TO MOLLY

Molly,
I write this letter knowing that you can never read it
or even be aware of it. Rather, this is for me, to organize
my thoughts and acknowledge the profound affect that you
have had on my life. Your death greatly saddened me, and as
time passes my memory of you remains vivid and precious.

I remember when we first met. It was at that farm on
Montague Road, your birthplace. The wife, two sons and I in
our rusting Ford wagon, came in response to the classified
ad.

The farmer took us to an enclosed area where you played
with your siblings under the watchful eye of your mother.
Jean and the boys moved immediately to you, the female runt
of the litter, and you rewarded them with kisses on the hand
and cheek. The decision was made.

"Two-thirds Irish setter and one-third vizsla," the
owner explained. We passed his approval as dog lovers
rather than abusers, $15 changed hands, and you were ours.

The trip back home was an effort to share your
snuggling and licking between the boys. Each of us had
dreams of what the future had in store for you.

"Wow, an Irish setter. We can hunt the field behind
the house for pheasant. What's a vizsla, Dad?"

"I think it's a breed they use to hunt lions and
tigers."

"Naw! Really?"

We pulled into the drive of the big house on the river
which would be your home for the next nine years.

Molly, you had a tough act to follow. Chris was 100%
German Shepherd, beautiful, intelligent, and friendly. She
had raised those boys from the ages of four and five. She
saw that they got their exercise. She applied soothing
kisses to tear-stained cheeks. She joined in their games of
back yard football, grabbing clothing and dragging ball
carriers to earth. She also taught us that death is the
ultimate end of all life.

And you, a furry five-pound mutt with sagging belly and
drooping ears, was to step into the breach? I had my
doubts.

Loving you then was easy, the cute, carefree puppy
frolicking through house and yard, our laughing at your
lovable clumsiness, your inquisitive examination of each
leaf and bug. The way your ears dangled in the water when
you drank, falling into a sleeping heap in the living room,
being sneaked into a boy's bed at night. We had our $15
worth in the first week.

As you grew, your gangling limbs didn't enhance your
looks, but you could then climb the steps without help. The
hopes of a beautiful Irish setter type dog faded, and you
took on the appearance of ten thousand other mongrels with
long curly black hair, broad chest, thick powerful legs.

"Wet mouth" was the term we heard, and you had one of
the wettest. After you left your water dish, water flowed
from your mouth for ten feet. At times drool hung in
unappetizing strands from the corners of your mouth. Skirts
and pants were streaked with this disgusting slime as you
pressed forward for attention and love.

Black hair appeared in corners and on clothes and
furniture. Dirt from outdoors was tracked in. Barking at
canoes, at squirrels, at neighbors had to be subdued. Your
early morning "woof" meant "Get up now. I have to go," and
we raced nature to see that you got outside.

But with all that, we loved you. Your moist dark eyes
hypnotized us to your faults. In the love department you
never disappointed us. And I guess love is the only
important thing.

Remember during the flood? Hour by hour the lawn so
vital to you grew smaller. Then it was gone. Your toilet
was now a two-block canoe trip away. The last thing at
night before bed, one of the boys took you down the outside
stairs and into the canoe, paddled up Edgemere Terrace to
the hill and waited patiently for you to return. More
exciting was the morning trip, when a hastily dressed boy
paddled frantically while you squirmed and pleaded.

As the waters receded, a small patch of grass by the
boat ramp was exposed. It took little urging to get you to
wade the one-foot deep water to reach it. Again, life was
good.

Molly, you did carry on for Chris in raising those two
boys. Now fourteen and fifteen, they faced the pressure and
pain of maturing. Countless hours were spent in silent
consultation with a boy who had performed poorly in school,
or been rejected by his friends. With your head resting
across a leg you applied your soothing balm of love and
listening with no payment expected except a scratch behind
the ears.

It was Dirk who released your inbred potential as the
great hunter. Rushing home from school, he took you roaming
the fields. An occasional flushed pheasant brought unbound
happiness. He stopped spending money, amassed a bank
account and purchased the coveted Weatherby Patrician shot
gun.

Finally, dog and boy with the finest of guns entered
the field. Pheasants were flushed; and even though no shots
were fired, it was heaven on earth for you and this sixteen-
year-old. Evenings he would pick the burrs and cut the
knots from your fur while planning the next day's hunt.

My favorite photo of you is with Kurt on a sail board
in the river. He encouraged you to board that tippy craft,
and with toenails clinging you looked with pleading eyes to
the shore as you sailed across the water. This I'm sure was
not your happiest moment. Kurt would never abuse you and
felt sure you would love the challenge of the water as he
did. Returning to shore with quivering legs and terror-
filled eyes, you plunged in and swam the last few feet.
Moments later, when Kurt was readying to depart again, you
rushed back to the boat to be the first aboard.

You spent many hours sailing on sunny days with balmy
breezes and in storms with raging winds. When the boat
turned over, as it often did, you paddled around until Kurt
righted the craft and boosted you back aboard.

You choose Mom as your master. After all, she was the
one who opened your dog food cans. She nursed you when you
were sick. She spent hours with comb and brush and
sometimes scissors making you a presentable member of the
family. These things are not to be taken lightly.

Remember your daily walks with her up to the pasture?
The five or six horses would see you coming and wait at the
fence. A quick sniffing of noses and then the horses
wheeled and ran, they on their side and you on yours. To
the end of the pasture then back again, then the game was
over, and they returned to grazing on the grass.

We moved from the river house, and the boys matured and
left home. The pace of life slowed now. You had your own
bedroom on the lower level with the old sofa for a bed. We
shut you in at night so we wouldn't be awakened at three in
the morning with a wet nose in the face. You helped me mow
the lawn and shovel the snow. You went on long walks with
Mom and I, reminiscent of your hunting days, but somewhat
slower now.

One final move. You lost your private bedroom and had
to settle for a large laundry room with comforter and
blankets for a bed. This was not all bad, as stairs were
becoming an effort for you to negotiate.

You spent hours now just laying in front of the window
watching the world go by. Jean and I were still greeted by
a wagging tail and a wet mouth, and when the boys visited
you could still run and leap with joy.

During good weather you would lay in the front yard
with sounds and smells that reminded you of other days. I
recall two neighbor girls riding by on their bicycle. "Oh,
Molly," they called and parked their bikes and ran to the
shade where you lay. A couple of hugs and kisses, and with
a quick good-bye you watched them ride off to their play.

Molly, I won't dwell on your death. It's too sad of a
way to end this letter. Instead I'll picture that black
furry puppy that we took home, with all the dreams and hopes
we had for your future. We could never guess then the vital
part you would play in our lives.

Lovingly,

Dad

Story ID:	287
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Letter
Location:	Roscoe Illinois USA
Year:	1995
Person:	Molly