Molly & Me
I had to wait until I was around 24 years old to get my first pet. Her name was Molly, and she was a gift from a visiting fraternity brother to my roommate Tom and I back in the late 90s. I know, some visitors just buy you dinner, maybe a bottle of wine or case of beer, and call it quits. But not Mike. He was staying for about two weeks or so, and he wanted company while we were away at work. And besides, Tom and I had been scouting dogs for awhile. We both wanted one, and with the social scene for twenty-something guys in Atlanta seeming to involve having a dog and parading her all over town, it just made sense for us to scour the pound in search of the perfect pup. Mike agreed, and next thing you know, Molly was ours.
Molly was a mutt in every sense. She had a beagle face, complete with the soft floppy ears and big brown eyes of that particular breed, but with a long shepherd-like body and markings. She was skinny, never weighing in at more than twenty pounds if I remember correctly, and had a ton of nervous energy. Oh, and she whined. Alot. So much so that she eventually took on the nickname of Mariah Molly, as her loud whining doggie melisma seemed to bear a striking resemblance to Mariah Carey belting out her latest chart topper.
Molly lived with Tom and I for a few years, and during that time, certain moments with her stand out. Like when I bought the "Idiot's Guide to Training Dogs" and proceeded to teach my little canine student how to shake my hand with both of her paws, to lie down, to speak, and most importantly, to roll over. She loved that trick, and man was she good at it. Once she got this one down, you would simply have to go near the doggie treats and Molly would start rolling and flailing all over the floor. That always tickled me. She was a fairly smart pup, and since this was my first experience with owning a dog, I was particularly dumbfounded at how simple it was to get this adorable, living stuffed animal to do whatever I wanted her to.
Unfortunately, her list of mastered commands never included walking gracefully on a leash. Far from it. A walk in the park with Molly was almost always one of those "who's walking who?" moments, where all the passersby smile sympathetically as you do everything in your human power to keep from getting the leash wrapped around trees, other people, or most embarrassingly, yourself. Let's just say I wasn't always successful. But Molly never cared. She was always happy as could be, pulling and yanking her way across sidewalks and fields, sniffing endlessly with her beagle-riffic sense of smell. Until of course, we would come across another dog. Or a kid. Or sometimes, even an adult.
You see, Molly didn't particularly like the animal or child population. It became obvious as time wore on that this deep-seated aversion to those groups was probably how she wound up in the pound in the first place. And the older she got, the worse most interactions with strangers became. One day I was walking her down my street when an older couple with grandkids approached. I got a lump in my throat as I felt Molly pulling toward them. This was the exchange, and actually became the normal protocol for such encounters involving this anxious little character:
Woman, cheerfully: "Is that dog sweet?"
Me, half-somberly: "Um, well....not really."
Woman, smile gone: "Oh, ok. Kids, don't pet her."
That always made me feel a little bad, but heck, this dog could be a loose cannon at times, as we all found out over the years. Better to err on the side of caution. After my roommate Tom got married, he took Molly to be a part of his new family. This lasted a few more years, until the birth of Tom's first child. One day, Molly got a little jealous of her new infant competition and bared her teeth, snapping at the baby. Understandably, a phone call was made, Molly ended up back with me, and she and I had about another year together before I was to move across the country. As I prepared to start a new life in California, I had no idea what to do with Molly. I knew I couldn't take her with me, as I was going to be driving solo for three weeks (she would have been a train wreck) and had no apartment lined up yet. I hadn't anticipated taking her back in, but here she was, a nearly 8-year old dog with some sweet moments and lots of social awkwardness. What to do?
Enter the Rosenthals, my Atlanta family. Thankfully, they knew her already and were beginning to fall in love with her. And as we all found, to know Molly was to love Molly.
Well, to my delight they took her in. She became an important part of their family, and I was even able to see her again during return visits to Atlanta. She was very happy in her new digs, and for seven long years, Molly had her run of the house. Everyone adored her. I always said she ended up with the best home I could ever have asked for, and am so grateful to my Atlanta family for loving her so much and taking such great care of her. That dog was downright spoiled. And as if that wasn't enough, Molly ended her life as a world traveler, too. That's right. She survived their move to Israel last year, where she lived happily until her final days on the planet earlier this month.
From the pound in Atlanta, GA to Israel in about 14 years or so, she touched alot of lives, and left alot of memories.
Looking back, I recall that Molly was never a very affectionate dog, but I kind of liked that about her. It made it extra special when she bestowed her one-lick-per-month on your hand as you pet her. And (of course) it was always special to me when I would come home in the evening after a long day of work to be greeted by Molly doing laps around the entire apartment at top speed for several minutes. It was like she waited all day for you to get home (oh wait, she did). And yes, sometimes these excited welcome-homes would even end in a lick, if you were lucky.
One more memory for the road. In the first few weeks after rescuing her, we had Molly fixed. I came home from work one night to a groggy puppy sitting upright on the couch, half-awake. As I walked in to the apartment, she didn't get up, bark, or run. She was still in too much pain to move. But I saw her long black tail flop up and down a couple of times upon seeing me. Aww, I thought. She loves me. She can barely walk, and still she wagged her tail for me. I happily went over and pet her, giving her some love as she sat there looking so painfully innocent, her big brown beagle eyes glossy.
I wandered off to my bedroom, flicked on the light, and found a nice little surprise left for me, right there beside my bed. Yes, the only place Molly felt like pooping in the house was right next to my bed. And did I mention that she returned to the scene of the crime a few more times before I finally started keeping my door shut during the day? Not only did she love me, but she loved that little spot on my bedroom carpet, too. In a twisted way, I felt honored that she would only poop in my room.
For all these memories and more, I am so grateful. Rest in peace, Molly. You were a wonderful first pet, and well worth the wait.
And yes, I must admit it. No matter what I said to the contrary, in my eyes, that dog was always sweet.
Molly was a mutt in every sense. She had a beagle face, complete with the soft floppy ears and big brown eyes of that particular breed, but with a long shepherd-like body and markings. She was skinny, never weighing in at more than twenty pounds if I remember correctly, and had a ton of nervous energy. Oh, and she whined. Alot. So much so that she eventually took on the nickname of Mariah Molly, as her loud whining doggie melisma seemed to bear a striking resemblance to Mariah Carey belting out her latest chart topper.
Molly lived with Tom and I for a few years, and during that time, certain moments with her stand out. Like when I bought the "Idiot's Guide to Training Dogs" and proceeded to teach my little canine student how to shake my hand with both of her paws, to lie down, to speak, and most importantly, to roll over. She loved that trick, and man was she good at it. Once she got this one down, you would simply have to go near the doggie treats and Molly would start rolling and flailing all over the floor. That always tickled me. She was a fairly smart pup, and since this was my first experience with owning a dog, I was particularly dumbfounded at how simple it was to get this adorable, living stuffed animal to do whatever I wanted her to.
Unfortunately, her list of mastered commands never included walking gracefully on a leash. Far from it. A walk in the park with Molly was almost always one of those "who's walking who?" moments, where all the passersby smile sympathetically as you do everything in your human power to keep from getting the leash wrapped around trees, other people, or most embarrassingly, yourself. Let's just say I wasn't always successful. But Molly never cared. She was always happy as could be, pulling and yanking her way across sidewalks and fields, sniffing endlessly with her beagle-riffic sense of smell. Until of course, we would come across another dog. Or a kid. Or sometimes, even an adult.
You see, Molly didn't particularly like the animal or child population. It became obvious as time wore on that this deep-seated aversion to those groups was probably how she wound up in the pound in the first place. And the older she got, the worse most interactions with strangers became. One day I was walking her down my street when an older couple with grandkids approached. I got a lump in my throat as I felt Molly pulling toward them. This was the exchange, and actually became the normal protocol for such encounters involving this anxious little character:
Woman, cheerfully: "Is that dog sweet?"
Me, half-somberly: "Um, well....not really."
Woman, smile gone: "Oh, ok. Kids, don't pet her."
That always made me feel a little bad, but heck, this dog could be a loose cannon at times, as we all found out over the years. Better to err on the side of caution. After my roommate Tom got married, he took Molly to be a part of his new family. This lasted a few more years, until the birth of Tom's first child. One day, Molly got a little jealous of her new infant competition and bared her teeth, snapping at the baby. Understandably, a phone call was made, Molly ended up back with me, and she and I had about another year together before I was to move across the country. As I prepared to start a new life in California, I had no idea what to do with Molly. I knew I couldn't take her with me, as I was going to be driving solo for three weeks (she would have been a train wreck) and had no apartment lined up yet. I hadn't anticipated taking her back in, but here she was, a nearly 8-year old dog with some sweet moments and lots of social awkwardness. What to do?
Enter the Rosenthals, my Atlanta family. Thankfully, they knew her already and were beginning to fall in love with her. And as we all found, to know Molly was to love Molly.
Well, to my delight they took her in. She became an important part of their family, and I was even able to see her again during return visits to Atlanta. She was very happy in her new digs, and for seven long years, Molly had her run of the house. Everyone adored her. I always said she ended up with the best home I could ever have asked for, and am so grateful to my Atlanta family for loving her so much and taking such great care of her. That dog was downright spoiled. And as if that wasn't enough, Molly ended her life as a world traveler, too. That's right. She survived their move to Israel last year, where she lived happily until her final days on the planet earlier this month.
From the pound in Atlanta, GA to Israel in about 14 years or so, she touched alot of lives, and left alot of memories.
Looking back, I recall that Molly was never a very affectionate dog, but I kind of liked that about her. It made it extra special when she bestowed her one-lick-per-month on your hand as you pet her. And (of course) it was always special to me when I would come home in the evening after a long day of work to be greeted by Molly doing laps around the entire apartment at top speed for several minutes. It was like she waited all day for you to get home (oh wait, she did). And yes, sometimes these excited welcome-homes would even end in a lick, if you were lucky.
One more memory for the road. In the first few weeks after rescuing her, we had Molly fixed. I came home from work one night to a groggy puppy sitting upright on the couch, half-awake. As I walked in to the apartment, she didn't get up, bark, or run. She was still in too much pain to move. But I saw her long black tail flop up and down a couple of times upon seeing me. Aww, I thought. She loves me. She can barely walk, and still she wagged her tail for me. I happily went over and pet her, giving her some love as she sat there looking so painfully innocent, her big brown beagle eyes glossy.
I wandered off to my bedroom, flicked on the light, and found a nice little surprise left for me, right there beside my bed. Yes, the only place Molly felt like pooping in the house was right next to my bed. And did I mention that she returned to the scene of the crime a few more times before I finally started keeping my door shut during the day? Not only did she love me, but she loved that little spot on my bedroom carpet, too. In a twisted way, I felt honored that she would only poop in my room.
For all these memories and more, I am so grateful. Rest in peace, Molly. You were a wonderful first pet, and well worth the wait.
And yes, I must admit it. No matter what I said to the contrary, in my eyes, that dog was always sweet.
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