I'm thick-headed. With my Daddy's recent knee troubles and subsequent surgery, my sisters and I have recently had visited upon us the revenge every parent dreams about foisting on their unsuspecting but richly deserving children; returning the stubbornness that made parenting us ever the daily challenge. He resisted going for diagnosis on knee trouble until one of my sisters made an appointment, picked him up, drove him to the doctor's office and sat with him during the exam. I can now say with a clear conscious that my stubbornness is clearly an inherited trait, and given Daddy's example, that will sustain me well as I get older and perhaps provide an opportunity for revenge on my own children.
But it was Molly that taught me how thick-hearted I was.
thick-hearted
condition that can prevents the human from becoming humane
humane
c.1450, variant of human, used interchangeably with it until early 18c., when it began to be a distinct word with sense of "having qualities befitting human beings." But inhuman still can be the opposite of humane.
Online Etymology Dictionary, © 2001 Douglas Harper
Monday, was a day that I knew was coming but that I had tried to ignore.
Molly came home with us twelve years ago after a visit to the local Humane society to look for a "watch-dog". My husband was doing a fair amount of traveling one summer and with only two small children at home with me, I wanted another set of ears to listen for strange noises at night. And to bark at those strange noises, so that I could get up and see what those strange noises were, not find them and then worry all night and then complain to my husband. Yes, I'm neurotic. Why do you ask?
We chose Molly because she was docile, and, in our minds, clearly abused. She cowered when the worker brought a broom into the room and when my younger child played with a chain in the visiting room, Molly hid under the bench. There was no leaving her, not as long as there was breath in my tender-hearted girls. So home, she came. She obediently went into the bathroom that adjoined my girls bedroom to spend the night. She never tried to get out as I put a gate in front of the door to keep her in that bathroom. We were satisfied, we had a dog who was docile and would let us know if there were noises to be investigated. We could now sleep in peace. Until, at least midnight that is. At which time Molly made an appearance beside my bed, tail wagging and ready to play. No bother, I walked her back to the bathroom, noting that the gate was still up, (hmmm?). Then started back down the hall to my bedroom, getting as far as the family room, when Molly came bounding behind me, and clearing the sofa in one leap, turned to face me with tail wagging, ready to play. Did I mention it was midnight? So much for docile. Oh well, she was going to be my cheap alarm system, right? Wellllll....we soon noticed that Molly wasn't barking at anything. Not the postman, squirrels, other dogs. Nothing.
Not good. So for three weeks, I wondered what to do. Having a dog just to walk, feed and scratch between the ears was not why I had signed onto this relationship. But I walked, fed, and scratched between her ears. And she loved it. And I realized my hard-heartedness. I didn't recognize the hardness until I felt it leave as I watched her enjoy her ear scratching. But it was there and it felt good to let go of it. And then it happened, she barked. Well not exactly a bark, but a sound. She was finding her inner bark (name the movie) and then bark she did, often and at everything. She did everything a dog is supposed to do. Chased rabbits, guarded our suburban lawn from encroachers, and patiently endured being dress-up by little girls.
She was afraid of thunderstorms and let us know it, but she never met a stranger she didn't like and was always the happiest one to see whomever walked through our doors. She reveled in her twice daily walks, loved her mealtimes and ours too...when we had steak.
Her delight in everything good was infectious. And her delight was multiplied when I would let go of my hardness and enjoy it as well. In that, she was my biggest cheerleader when I got it right and my humbliest, and most patient, critic when I got it wrong, which I did often. In short, she taught her humans how to be humane.
We guesstimated that Molly was somewhere between 15 and 17 years old. Up until the day before she died, she tugged at the leash to go in a different direction. She was stubborn. Maybe, she was stubbornly hanging on for us, I don't know, but stubborn she was. Over the course of the last year, we had watched her age ...quickly and quietly. She went from her tail-wagging, energetic fun-loving puppy dog self to a dog who had lost her hearing, most of her sight and her ability to walk up and down steps. I didn't care about all of that, she was my dog and would continue to be so because I could take care of her, forever...right?. But after a severe seizure, which we now realize was the second of two in 4 days, that left her weakened, I could no longer deny what was happening. Denial was not being the humane creature she had faithfully taught me to be. So we, through tears, said our good-byes and once again, she was our comforter and our tutor. She never once wavered in her love for us and in teaching us to love well even at the end.
Thank you, Molly. RIP
