A Death in the Extended Family

She had been dead for probably twelve hours, but, until we received the call, we were unaware. We had even talked about her this morning discussing when we planned to see her on Monday. Perhaps that is the better way to think of her death, or anyone’s death – that she remains alive in our minds despite her body having ceased to function.

Her name was Molly, and she was — and in my mind will remain — a five-year-old dog. My husband and I have been her dog-sitters for about four years or more. Five days a week for almost every week in the year, Molly would spend four hours with us.

Which means that we have spent a minimum of 4,000 hours in her company. I’ve spent less time with some members of my human family. And, almost hard to believe, but absolutely true – all 4,000 hours were a pleasure, all the time, without exception.

There are few relationships in life that have that sort of track record.

Molly was — to use a common but accurate expression — a gentle giant. She was mixed breed, part Saint Bernard, part who knows. She was tall and slim, with black and white markings like a svelte serene little pony, and weighed just over 100 lbs.

We’ve personally owned several dogs and have walked and dog-sat many others. One odd differentiator between the “regular (but still loved) dog customers” and those who deeply entered our hearts was the song and the “pet” name. The ones who somehow carved out their space in our souls received special songs and nicknames – usually silly ones. These songs and nicknames were not intentional, they just happened. With Molly, we called to her by singing “Good Golly, Miss Molly” or ‘Mo Mo More — how d’ya like it, how d’ya like it’ (from a gloriously ridiculous 1976 disco tune), and we baptized her “Miss MoMo”.

Recently, Molly began having epileptic seizures. She was placed on medication, but nothing worked and late last night her owners had to take her to the emergency veterinarian. Sometime in the night, she was euthanized.

Molly had a short life, but she had been blessed with kind and wonderful owners. Molly was hardly ever alone — a condition that dogs endure but don’t relish. She was with us for four hours a day on weekdays, and with her family of four humans and their extended family, at all other times.

She was deeply loved by all. As she deserved to be, simply because she existed in a state of perpetual love and calm.

We can all learn from that.

We have pictures and videos of Molly, and we have our memories of her. But she needn’t die in our hearts. Right now, it’s so soon, and I feel bereft, headache-y, and sick to my stomach — but mostly sick at heart. I know it will pass in time.

Molly, like all dogs, was an angel walking among us. And now she walks in our memories.