Recalling a 4-legged friend each spring

This morning starts as most Sunday mornings, with a cup of coffee, the morning paper and CBS Sunday Morning on the television. Relaxing in my PJ's sitting in my man-chair, I finish my second cup of coffee then look out the window of my living room to take the pulse of what the day has to offer. The weather on this drizzly, spring day decides fishing with my grandchildren is out and yard work in a raincoat will be the task of the day.

I gather my garden tools; rake, garbage can, clippers, shears and shovel then head to the backyard to begin my work. Melancholy overcomes me and I question my emotion; then it hits me. There is no dog poop to scoop from the yard and the flower bed I'm pruning is the final resting place of Molly - not just a dog but my friend for the past 12 years. My emotion and unexpected sadness is due to the first spring in over a decade without my big yellow dog following me around the yard, picking up a tennis ball expecting me to throw it.

In my sadness, I reread the column I wrote last summer on the day Molly passed. I share this column again with my readers as a reminder of the power of a pet!

Mindlessly removing soil from the earth gives a man time to think; digging a hole is cathartic. I bury my heel into the footrest of the shovel, start to cry and dig deeper trying to determine the space needed to bury my best friend. I dig deeper and deeper, and I think. A bird's song breaks my internal dialog and I refocus on the task at hand. Molly is dead and needs to be buried.

As I dig I think of Molly jumping off the long dock at Higgens Point searching for the orange throwing dummy I launch into the lake directing, "Sit, Ready, Okay, Go!" Each shovel of dirt I remove from my garden reminds me of the life and unconditional love Molly offered me. I think of the time Molly tackled then held with her paws the dog that was charging me ready to attack. I think of Molly sitting then shaking as she waits for me to launch her duck decoy into the lake for her to retrieve.

One, two, three more shovels of dirt and I continue to think ... Molly, searching endlessly for her lost dog-friend, Bogart who died while his parents were on vacation. Molly, hobbling around the yard chasing the orange throwing dummy thrown by little Quin, my granddaughter, not understanding how difficult it is for Molly to chase the dummy and Molly, not caring that her body is too old to run after the toy she's eagerly chased thousands of times before.

Molly's body finally outlives her determination. On this warm July day, I hear a yelp as my friend's tired body stumbles on the last two stairs of my home and weakly falls to the landing. I run from my mancave to see my 12-year old puppy's body lying at the doors entrance. "Molly, what's wrong?" She looks up, pants and tries to stand. Her scared eyes look into my scared eyes and our eyes moisten. I carry her up the stairs, lay her down and we both lie on the living room floor, staring at each other.

My wife hears loud panting and knows something is wrong. She walks into the room and looks quizzically at the two of us lying on the living room floor. I look up at my wife and mutter, "Chele, she's dying."

The next two hours are magical. I cry; Chele brings me tissue. I take Molly's bed to the deck and slowly carry her to her cushion. We lay together as her life slowly comes to an end. She is not suffering; she's just dying. I watch, slowly petting her blond, furry coat as she struggles for air that's not there and reassure her that she is loved. As her last breath leaves her body, I cry, pet her softly, and say goodbye. My friend is gone.

Molly's life starts out roughly. Her previous owner kenneled her for the first two years of her life. She was able to leave her kennel once a week for a walk with her owner. On this walk, Molly chases kids on bicycles and nibble at their ankles as they ride by. Consequently, Molly's owners deem her vicious and are afraid to allow her to play with their children. She is forced to void her bowls in her kennel, which make housebreaking difficult and has no discipline training. My sister in-law calls, knowing I want a Lab, and asks if we would take this vicious beast. My answer is yes!

Our first six months together are rough. Molly chews three garden hoses, my lawnmower cord, pulls my birch tree from the yard and bites a large piece of siding from our home. She refuses to come into the house and when I carry her in, refuses to lie down and runs the hallways and stairs constantly.

A friend told me there are two types of Labrador retrievers: drug sniffers and Seeing Eye dogs. I have a drug sniffer. Drug sniffers always want to work and seldom slow down. Seeing Eye dogs are calm and wait for their owner to tell them what to do. Molly never stops. I work with her daily, take her to the lake, take her hiking and hunting, teach her to sit, stay, heal, fetch and to lie down. Molly becomes a kind, well-trained, obedient, loyal family pet - she becomes part of the family and now she is dead. We've lost a member of our family.

I have many thanks to share with the regular readers of this column. Four months ago, I wrote about Molly aging and my struggles with how her final days will be. In the end, lying with her as the life left her body is a memory I will always value and never forget. The many suggestions offered from readers all focused on spending the last moments of life with my pet. You were right. Molly needed me there and I needed to be there. Also, readers said I will know when the time will be right to put Molly to sleep and I am glad she took that decision from me.

I also wish to thank Beth who painted two pictures of Molly after being moved by reading my previous column. Molly's paintings will permanently hang in our home and my office reminding me of the joy she brought our family.

Tonight my house is quiet; no panting, no dog farts, no loud dog-dreams of Molly chasing cats, squirrels or birds in her slumber. Molly is buried in the garden, dead. Tomorrow I will build a vegetable bed above her grave in which I plan to plant tomatoes, basil, carrots and spinach. Molly is planted next to the garden pond in hopes she will continue to swim in her permanent slumber for the orange throwing dummy of her dreams. Good night Molly.

In conclusion, the flowers and vegetables in Molly's garden bed thrive. She lives through the plants growing above her body which I swear, bend slightly toward the garden pond.

Bill Rutherford is a psychotherapist, public speaker, elementary school counselor, adjunct college psychology instructor and executive chef, and owner of Rutherford Education Group. Please email him at bprutherford@hotmail.com or visit www.dietingwithdignity.com.