This article was also released in the Fall/Winter 2010 Issue of Imprints. (Used with permission.)
A few years ago when Tom became President of NEOCR, he was looking for a volunteer to coordinate the group’s newsletter. I thought about it. Considering the condo I live in has limited space and a small yard, taking in extra collies isn’t possible. I thought maybe this was a way I could actually contribute to the organization. Since graphics and communications come pretty naturally to me, I figured I could help the rescues while continuing to conquer the computer world.
I’m not among the gifted and generous folks who do intakes, or coordinate foster homes, or place adoptions, or acquire multiple dogs when we don’t have enough foster homes, or orchestrate the endless details to shuffle dogs to critical vet appointments. Rather I’m one of the “behind the scenes” people who flutter around tracking down e-mails, updating forms, maintaining websites, snapping pictures, tracking “happy tail” stories, editing copy, etc. In my own way, I wanted to “pay it forward” in gratitude for the wonderful and somewhat famous pup that came into my life six years ago, “Ms. Mollie the Collie.”
No one told me as editor that I needed a box of Kleenex® to do my job. But then again, no one told me how much rejoicing or how many “happy feet dances” would be going on when I was fortunate enough to read about all the joyful endings and splendid adoptions. I would be up to my eyeballs in my usual design details, pulling another late-night shift, when Mollie would come into the office bedroom and give me “the paw.” It was her way of letting me know she was still there, and it was probably time to call it a night. I would lean over, grab her behind the ears, ruffle her all up until she was fuzzy, and say to her, “It’s all because of you, Mollie! Who knew? Who knew you would bring all this joy into my life?”
Mollie came into my life when I desperately needed to mend a broken heart. She and my calico kitty, Buffy, were very much filling the void I was experiencing. What I didn’t know was how many people I would meet, how many friends I would make, or just how many lives Mollie would touch. I’m still amazed at the neighbors who got out of their cars to pet her, the kids who became her fan club, and the people in the park who stopped and tell me their story about their own dog once they met mine. Okay, I admit it: I’m guilty of stopping to talk to the local dog lovers as well.
I’m the kind of person who sees an injured animal on the road and then runs home to check on my animals and make sure they are okay. I loved the secure sound of my dog softly snoring in her bed on floor next to mine. I loved when my cat and dog played tag. And when I poked my head around the corner to see what they were up to, they both stopped in their tracks and looked at me as if to say, “Who me? Not me!” And I knew one day it would be my sad turn to write a tribute to the pup who brought so many great experiences into my life.
Mollie, in a word, had an exuberance for life. On her walks, she pranced down the street with her head held high and a tail that eagerly swished. Squirrels, raccoons, bunnies and deer had better look out when she was on the prowl. Mollie loved everybody and everybody loved Mollie. If I walked without her, everyone wanted to know if she was okay.
Despite all her exuberance, Mollie’s Achilles heel was her digestive system. It was a delicate balancing act to keep from tummy to tail happy. It seemed like in the last year we had made some real progress. We adjusted her diet, the stomach acid problem seemed under control and the span between vet visits was improving. Whenever I took her to the vet, they were able to fix her up, send her home, and she would be on the mend in no time at all. Then one day there was the trip to the vet where I wasn’t so sure if they could put her back together again, but I was hopeful.
We had just attended the Whine & Cheese fundraiser in May and had a lovely time. Mollie became sick about a week later. We went to the vet, got some medication, and she seemed to be on a slow road to recovery. A few weeks later at the beginning of June, Mollie started to not feel well again. This time she wouldn’t eat. She was restless and couldn’t get comfortable. Climbing the one or two steps into the house now became a challenge. I made an appointment for her on a Monday morning before work. I called work and left a message that I would be in late. We got ready to go to the appointment, but this time I had to lift her into the car, which left me pretty concerned.
After her examination, we decided to keep Mollie at the vet’s for the day to have some extra tests done. Off I went to work. Later in the day, the vet’s office called back and told me that while her blood work came back good, something showed up on Mollie’s x-ray. We decided to have her stay at the vet’s overnight and have a series of barium x-rays done the next day. I thought it would be safe for her there where she could be monitored, and they could keep her medicated and hydrated. The house was strangely quiet that night.
The next morning, I went off to work again. I received a call in the morning from the vet’s office, and we went over Mollie’s history again on the phone, It sounded like she took a turn for the worse overnight, but they were still going to do the tests. The next call came in telling me that she had definite internal blockage in her intestines. Then I had to decide whether to do surgery to determine the nature of the blockage. I hoped it would be something fixable, like retrieving a swallowed cat toy. We went ahead with the surgery. At this point, no longer able to concentrate on work, I packed up my desk and headed home. Unfortunately, I took the bus that day and had a long commute home.
The third phone call came in while I was on the bus on the way home. Mollie had a rather large tumor totally obstructing her small intestine. Given her weakened state, the size of the tumor, her recent rapid weight loss, and her continual vomiting despite being on anti-nausea medicine, I made the difficult decision to let her pass on to that peaceful resting place where dogs freely play and romp the fields without pain or suffering. We decided not to wake Mollie up from the surgery, and then I would stop in to say my goodbyes when I got off the bus. Mollie experienced such separation anxiety; I didn’t have the heart to wake her up just to put her down again.
I hung up the phone and sobbed uncontrollably. I suppose the other people on the bus wondered why I was hyperventilating into my Kleenex. A few minutes later, a woman boarded the bus who was only riding for a short distance; she didn’t even take a seat. She stood near the bus driver so she could get off at the right stop. I was watching her while tears were still streaming down my face. I blinked my tears away and took a closer look at the tote bag she carried over her shoulder. It had “Molly Molly Molly” written all over it. I couldn’t believe it. A moment later, I swear I saw Mollie’s face appear on the side of the bag as if she were once again eagerly looking out the window at me…bright eyed and alert. I blinked again and the face slowly disappeared and the canvas bag returned. I looked at my watch and concluded at that moment she must have passed… and that was her way of saying goodbye.
I stopped at the vet’s office as soon as I got off the bus and paid my last respects. It was so hard to believe this time I was coming home without my beloved Mollie. She looked like she was just taking an afternoon nap. I am forever grateful to Royalton Road Animal Hospital for the compassion they showed both before and after Mollie’s passing.
Only another pet lover can understand the range of emotion in this kind of situation. And those of us whose pets are our kids can understand when I say I felt I lost one of my girls. I hadn’t felt this lousy since my dad passed way 11 years earlier.
At this point I could say that Mollie’s life was over, or was it? I was truly amazed by all the concern that was expressed after she passed; humbled by the donations made in her honor. I received more cards from Mollie’s passing than when my father died. I received cards from people I didn’t directly know; they were my neighbor’s friends who always asked how Mollie was doing. I had two friends who talked together on the phone about a friend who lost a dog, and it turned out they both knew “Mollie the Collie” but didn’t realize they both knew me!
Being Mollie’s Mom was truly a privilege. I felt it was the one thing in life I had actually done right. She gave me a sense of purpose. Some people want a dog that brings them the newspaper or slippers. I wanted a dog that brought me out of myself, and indeed Mollie did just that.
I miss her nudging nose. I miss her noseprints on the patio door. I miss leaving lipstick smooches on her white snout. I miss that special language we had where she hung onto every word I said trying to anticipate what she should do next. Go outside? Go for a walk? Go for a ride? Go see grandma? Okay, let’s go!
Well, it was a long and difficult summer to say the least. I apologize for the fall/winter issue of Imprints being so long overdue, but I lost some of the wind out of my sails. This could be the end of Mollie’s story, or it could be another beginning. Funny thing — she came into my life to heal a broken heart, and she somehow left me with a stronger heart.
So it begins again. I sit here writing this editorial with my handy box of Kleenex. My foster dog, Bosco, lays curled up at my side with his paw touching my leg.
“Bosco, you’ve got big paws to fill. I hope you realize that. Oh wait, you already have HUGE paws.”
He lets out one of his long sighs.
“Well buddy, I think we’re in it for the long haul. Don’t plan on going anywhere, okay?”
Okay.
