Joy and Sorrow: remembering my friend, Mollie

There’s a pile of field stones in the garden now that wasn’t there when the pumpkin, peas and other seeds were planted back in May. It’s a spot that I pause by every evening prior to checking on the once barren ground that is now producing tender beans and nutritious beets and promises a good yield of succulent tomatoes and super sweet corn in coming days.

When I stop by the spot, a conversation ensues with my very best friend of the past 14-plus years.

"What do you think, Mollie -- will it rain tonight? Guess we’d better water the pumpkins, just in case."

She rests quietly beneath the mound of stones -- that once served as a foundation for the pig stable where she loved to hunt for mice and other ‘wild game’ -- watching with soulful, brown eyes as I go about the routine duties of watering and weeding, just as she did on so many summer evenings at whatever location we called home.

That’s what I’ve come to believe in the past three weeks since my Mollie was laid to rest.

The end came quickly and quietly, but the hours that preceded her passing felt like an eternity -- at least it seemed that way to me, although only seven days passed from the time she was taken ill until her death. Making the decision to have her put to sleep may not have been the most difficult choice I’ve ever had to make, but it was without a doubt the most emotional.

Have I done everything I can? What’s best for her? Is she suffering? Can she recover? Like countless others, I asked the questions that have no real answers when it comes to determining the fate of a beloved pet -- more than a pet -- a true friend who exemplifies unconditional love and absolute devotion.

In the end, when she could no longer tolerate my attempts to lift and carry her -- and there seemed to be no hope that she would ever recover enough to proudly stalk those wary field mice in the lane -- the questions had an answer. As difficult as it was, easing her pain was the right thing to do -- at least that’s what I tell myself every night, just like everyone else does who’s made that awful decision.

What remains are vivid memories.

Aaron and Brent choosing the furriest, most spunky pup in a litter of eight, and arguing about who got to hold her on the way home -- Mollie loved them both; no favorites.

Looking exactly like the Alaskan Malamute on the Meaty Bone box as she grew older -- up until a couple years ago when the black on her nose began to show more and more signs of white. Still, she maintained the most beautiful and expressive face -- Mollie aged with grace and dignity.

Numerous encounters with woodchucks, raccoons -- and the occasional skunk -- where she prevailed more often than not. It was pretty hard for any animal to get through the heavy fur collar that encircled Mollie’s neck. She was a good fighter.

There’s not much question that she’s making the rounds somewhere now, checking for critters to tangle with or just tease a bit. I’m certain of that.

On behalf of Aaron and Brent -- and my Mom and Dad who took both Mollie and me in nearly four years ago -- my deepest appreciation goes to Dr. Lauren Norby and the entire staff at St. Johns Animal Clinic for the loving care and sincere concern shown to Mollie during her brief stay there. It’s been nearly three weeks, and I still find it impossible to find words which adequately express my gratitude for your support during a most difficult time -- thank you.

Although I haven’t yet been able to bring myself to walk down the lane like we did every night -- rain or shine, hot or cold -- that time will come. Like a friend said, the hurt doesn’t go away, you just learn to work around it.