If it is true as
it is said that one of the reasons the Creator gave us dogs was to make us
laugh and lighten our spirits, then Molly was indeed a gift from above.
She was an adult
Basset hound of indeterminate age when we acquired her as a companion for our
inexplicably nervous and skinny young Basset Mandy. Molly was the exact opposite of nervous—she
was enormous, weighing over ninety pounds and in possession of a long patrician
snout, magnificent silky ears and a chest which looked downright seaworthy (we used
to call it her prow). Her ears were so
long and her legs were so stubby she used to step on her ears when she walked.
Molly came from
Michigan and traveled cross-country when we moved back to the Niagara
area. With two Basset hounds, two cats,
two gerbils, and two hippies in our painted VW microbus—it was a long strange
trip indeed. We ended up in Hamilton,
Ontario with a fenced-in back yard and a spot for the enormous dog house Paul
had built for the dog run back in Michigan.
Mandy was so nervous about the adorable children next door that she wore
a trench around the outside of the yard with her pacing (when she was not
trying to hide in the dog house) but Molly just sat there soaking up the hugs
and adoration. (It still amazes me that later
when Paul sold Mandy to a young couple with young children she became a
completely different dog.)
Molly adored
everyone and everyone adored her. I am
sure if we had thought of it at the time, we could have spent hours dressing
her up in scarves and pearls, feather boas and shawls and she would have just
sat there enjoying the attention. Molly
also loved going for car rides. One day
Paul’s brother had come for a visit and after a couple of hours, headed out to
the driveway and his VW Beetle. As soon
as he opened his door, Molly jumped into the back of the car, landing on the
floor, of course. We called her
out. She sat down, an immovable object, with
the “hump” between her front and back legs.
One of us pushed from the rear and another of us pulled from the front
and still she would not budge. Paul’s
brother was forced to take her for a brief ride around the block before she
deigned to exit the vehicle.
I was home alone
one afternoon and decided that Molly needed a bath. It was struggle but I finally managed to
lever her into the bath tub. Once she
was all nice and clean she was ready to exit the tub. I stepped back and said to her, “Jump out,
Molly!” She looked at me like, Yeah—right. I realized I had a problem—a great huge
slippery wet dog problem. I could barely
maintain a grip on her much less lift her out of the tub. We compromised and I finally managed to lift
her front end and slide her across the edge of the tub (not unlike a toboggan
on a snowy slope) until she landed in a rather undignified heap on the bathroom
floor. But she didn’t seem to mind at
all—she was happy to go back outside and find fresh dirt to roll in.
One day Paul
decided he did not want Molly eating in the dining room with us. He placed her metal roasting pan full of
kibble in the laundry room. Molly was insulted
by this. It seems she figured—if we ate in the dining room—she would eat in the dining room! We sat down for supper one night and Molly
appeared by the table with the strangest expression on her face. Her cheeks were bulging like a chipmunk’s. I looked her in the eye and asked her, “Molly,
do you have a mouth full of kibble?” She
gazed back with sheer innocence so we pretended to look away (trying not to
laugh). Once she seemed confident that we
were no longer staring at her, she surreptitiously spat a heap of kibble onto
the floor (Ptui! Ptui! Ptui!) which
she proceeded to eat in a most delicate ladylike fashion. From then on, Molly was allowed to eat with
us in the dining room whenever she wished.
When I began
what was to be my most illustrious and long-lived career as a picture framer,
Paul decided that Molly would be lonely by herself all day and he rehomed
her. And that was that. No more Molly.
Many months later
Paul informed me that we were going on a road trip to visit an old friend of
mine. “Is it a childhood friend?” I
asked, “Someone I went to college with?”
He steadfastly refused to tell me who we were to visit as we drove
further and further down winding country roads and up and down shallow hills
and valleys. It was the middle of winter
and the snow lay deep in the bare woods.
We finally arrived at a small house at the edge of the road, and much to
my embarrassment and horror, Paul made me go to the door alone and knock.
I heard her barking
before she pushed the door open—it was Molly!
She was overjoyed to see us. She
looked great, and the new owner told us she had not lost several of her unusual
skills—turns out she frequently hoovered up unopened tins of the cat’s food
and carried them around the house a bit before spitting them out unharmed. It was so wonderful to see how happy and
well-loved she was. And before we left
them, Molly performed her famous feat of heaving her bulk into the air unaided
and I captured it on film.
“Molly—up!”
“Good girl.”
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| Molly (Hand-coloring by Kim Wilson) |