Loving like Molly

Years ago a reader scolded me for writing a column that made her sad. I promised her I’d warn her at the top if a column might get teary.

This may be such a one. Consider yourselves warned,

Molly is gone. Molly was the beloved companion of our friend Tommy who lives on the other side of Three Ponds.

Tommy’s put on a few years since we’ve gotten to know him, and pretty much depended on his golden retriever to get him outdoors every day. You never saw one without the other. The big dog had at least as many friends as Tommy does. In fact, Molly just assumed that any other creature she met on their walks was a friend. She greeted us with a swinging tail and a smile on her face, honest.

When she was young, Tommy had to pull her away from her admirers. She wanted to get up in their faces, and most of them really didn’t mind. But she was strong and could easily knock a person down.

Tommy’s not a big man and it took both arms for him to get her four feet back on the cart path.

When I turned onto McIntosh Trail on my way to work out last week, I saw Tommy ahead of me, walking alone, and I knew. I knew.

I tapped the horn so he wouldn’t be startled by the golf cart, and he stepped aside and turned to wait for me to pass. Just like he used to do with Molly. I stopped and I don’t think I even said “Good morning.”

“Tommy,” I blurted. “Where’s Molly?”

She had contracted a fast-moving cancer and survived only a few weeks after it was discovered. I tried to remember when I saw her last; it was only days before she died. Sure, I could see that she was moving slowly, but she was trying so hard. Tommy said that when she couldn’t walk, couldn’t eat, he knew it was time, and had her put down.

What can you say? Most of us have had the experience of losing a beloved pet, and some feel embarrassed for the tears that flow.

A dog like Molly – and Daisy and Muffin and our Abbie – become as much a part of you as any two-legged family member. Tommy had Molly since she was five weeks old. Their partnership lasted 11 years.

He lived by Molly’s schedule. At breakfast, she sat beside him and licked up the little bit of extra milk that somehow always remained in the cereal bowl. When Tommy got up and put on a jacket for their walk, Molly was already at the front door, waiting.

The two walked together to the ponds and back. It took awhile because they had to visit with everyone they met. Sometimes that meant a dozen or more runners, cyclists, mamas with strollers. Sometimes there wasn’t half that number. Those of us who use the paths regularly agree that there seems to be no formula to predict how many people will be out at any one time.

Tommy still goes for walks, taking the same routes Molly liked, and he feels her with him. Really, his own sight is failing, but his feet know the way, just like Molly did.

Dave likes to quip to dog-walkers, “Your doggy’s taking you for a walk this morning?”

That’s exactly what happens. There are mornings that Tommy would rather stay home and skip the walk. Molly won’t let him. In some mysterious way, he feels her tugging, feels her taking him for a walk.

“Will you get a new dog, Tommy?” I was sure he’d say no. Any dog he gets now will probably outlive him. Besides, at his age it will be hard to train a young dog and take her to the veterinarian for shots and check-ups.

To my surprise, he answered instantly: “Oh, yes,” then told me a relative in Atlanta has a litter of Weimaraners. One will be his when she’s old enough to leave her mama, in about three more weeks.

He’s eager to start over with a new companion. Not that she will ever replace Molly. There was only one Molly. The new pup will provide a distraction and help his broken heart to heal.

The new pup will take Tommy for his walks, and let Molly get a little rest.