Time for a new dog

It is finally time. Four years after the death of my yellow lab, Molly, I am finally ready to commit to another dog. I miss having a hunting buddy, someone to take to the lake when I attempt to convince myself to lay on the couch to watch one more rerun of, "Key and Peele," and a happy face to greet me when I get home after a hard day at work.

I reread the story I wrote the night Molly passed to relive to loss I felt four years ago. Am I willing to feel this pain again? Do I want to shovel poop from the yard every morning? Am I up to this task? Absolutely! Below is the story of Molly written the night she died. It is time to open a new chapter in my life. I need a companion.

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 in search of the orange throwing dummy I launch into the lake directing, "Sit, Ready, OK, 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, 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 friend, Bogart who died while his parents were on vacation. Molly, hobbling around the yard chasing the orange throwing dummy thrown by little Quinn, 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 man cave to see my 12-year-old puppy's body lying at the door's entrance. I ask, "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 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 hour is magical. I cry; Chele brings me tissue. I take Molly's bed to the deck and slowly carry her to her cushion. We sit 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 started out roughly. Her previous owners 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 would chase kids on bicycles and nibble at their ankles as they rode by. Consequently, Molly's owners deemed her vicious and were afraid to allow her to play with their children. She was forced to void her bowls in her kennel, which made housebreaking difficult and had no discipline training. My sister-in-law called, knowing I wanted a Lab, and asked if we would take this vicious beast. My answer was yes!

Our first six months together were rough. Molly chewed three garden hoses, my lawn-mower cord, pulled my birch tree from the yard and bit a large piece of siding from our home. She refused to come into our home and when I carried her in, refused to lie down and ran the hallways and stairs constantly.

A friend told me there are two types of Labrador retrievers: drug sniffers and Seeing Eye dogs. I had 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 stopped. I worked with her daily, took her to the lake, took her hiking and hunting, taught her to sit, stay, heal, fetch and to lie down. Molly became a kind, well-trained, obedient, loyal family pet - she became part of the 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 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.

Send comments or other suggestions to William Rutherford at bprutherford@hotmail.com or visit pensiveparenting.com.