The death of Molly

I’m not sure why I’m crying. It’s a beautifully sunny Sunday morning. A hummingbird sips nectar from the feeder above my head, squirrels invite friends to eat peanuts from the box I filled with nuts the night before, Scarlett and Scout, my 1-year-old Labrador retriever siblings lie belly-up in the dark green grass allowing the warm morning sun to heat their underside and I’m digging weeds from Molly’s bed.

I love working in the garden. Digging weeds, turning soil, planting seedlings, raking leaves and cleaning the garden pond comfort my inner-being. I need to see soil under my fingernails to know I am alive.

This winter, I do not have this feeling. Frozen dirt, dormant plants and chilly days make me believe that spring will never come. My mind is consumed with death. Trees losing leaves, grass turns brown and friends die. My hands are clean, the bottom of my feet, sterile and my mind, numb.

I need to wake up.

Ants invade Molly’s bed crawling over my ankle biting needlessly as they wander up my leg. Squirting the pests off with my water hose, I wonder if the ants might plot to shrink me down and imprison me in their caves as they did Lucas in the book, “The Ant Bully.” I giggle, brush the bugs from my legs and continue to weed.

Now I think of Molly. The flower bed I weed is the grave of my friend, my hunting buddy, my pet. Molly lived the first 18 months of her life as a prisoner, only to leave her cage Saturday mornings to explore her world then quickly be condemned to her chain-link prison walls for being too wild, too aggressive, too crazy.

I adopt Molly as a wild dog in need of love. Always wanting a Lab knowing I might never be able to afford a purebred, I accept the challenge and bring Molly home. Molly quietly sleeps in the back seat of my car on the ride home from Missoula to Coeur d’Alene. Once home, the bond begins. Molly wants to please, wants to behave, wants to learn.

Molly and I work hard for a year to fetch, dock-dive, chase birds and retrieve. Molly sleeps in the house for the first time after five months and allows me to pet her after six months. She sleeps with me as I nap at seven months and becomes a family dog after a year. Now I weed her deathbed.

Pansies, petunias and poppies grow in the raised rock encased flower bed of my deceased friend. I pull a weed, an ant crawls across my toes; I swat the pest from my skin and continue to pull dandelions from the bed. Three ants converge on my thigh; bite me aggressively as I angrily squish each black demon between my thumb and forefinger as tears land on my cheek. Ants are eating my friend!

Now I understand my tears. My tears are not for this day but for 10 years prior. My tears are for the potential of an animal first abused then loved. My tears are for a friend I will never play fetch with again. My tears are for family and friends who pass this past few years who I will never have the ability to talk with again, and my tears are for me.

Today I feel sorrow, tomorrow I embrace hope. Scout and Scarlett are the joy I embrace here and now. Fiona, Rory and Quinn, my granddaughters, are the hope I see in my future. Heather, my daughter, is the hope I see today. In my genealogy, my family tree, I am inspired. In my spirit, my hope, I am joyful. Life is not about things but about the love, hate, kindness and joy we offer to the people we love.

My tears stop, I continue my work, plant a petunia and think. Celebrating today is more important than living in the past. Molly is gone. I celebrate the life she offers me. Scout and Scarlett, Rory, Quinn, and Fiona, Heather and Michele, my wife, are all alive. I celebrate the life they offer me. Mom and dad are gone. I celebrate the life they gave me. Today, life is good!

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