Dear Molly,

The day I met you was the happiest of my life.

 I had already known you years before you were born, and had felt you coming. When Marvin passed away, I knew, at the age of three, that my dog Molly was on her way. Our dad promised me you would be here. You were playing in the stars with Marvin and Grandpa. Four years before you were born, you were already part of our family.

As time went along, I grew impatient. I was angry that you still weren’t here. Having moved to Philadelphia, I was displaced and unsettled. I wished desperately for you to come to me, to be my companion in a time of discomfort. I was seven when we moved to our home in Oreland, and we began actively searching for you.

I remember so clearly the day Dad told me someone had referred him to a breeder with seven Bichon puppies, four girls and three boys.

 “Can we have one?” I’d asked eagerly, smiling with excitement. Dad was reluctant. My hopes were soaring, and he didn’t want to see them crush me.

“We’ll see…” he’d answered. I was deflated, but held onto the little gem of hope.

Weeks later, we were in Flemington, NJ, and I was joyfully surrounded by you and your litter mates for the first time. I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm.

A few weeks after that, I was bouncing with glee as the end of second grade approached—not to get out of school, but to bring you home the next day. That was June 12, 1999.

I knew I wanted a girl, and her name would be Molly. Your breeders let me choose between two of their girls—“Molly One” and “Molly Two.” They not-so-secretly wanted me to pick you, “Molly One,” their favorite girl of the litter. I recognized you instantly; there was no question in my mind that you were my dog. Even our Dad, reluctant as he was to get a fluffy little dog, was won over when you licked his face.

I smiled the whole way home, and couldn’t wait to hold you. You were hesitant to come out of the safety of your crate when we brought you inside. They were the last few moments you would have to yourself. In the following days, I did nothing but hold and play with you. Dad saw you getting overwhelmed, and made me leave you alone for five minutes. He even set the timer. You went to your bed, and I lay on the floor for the longest five minutes of my life.

That first summer when you were a puppy, you loved to run in the yard. You used to run one lap after another up and down the lawn. You would bite the grass at the end of each lap and do a flip before turning around and running the other way. You were so fast that even we couldn’t catch you. Soon, though, we learned you were powerless to praise—all we had to do was say, “Good girl, Molly,”—and you stopped in your tracks, and rolled over for a belly rub.

 For the next couple of years, my friends and I did everything with you. We performed shows in which you starred; we dressed you up in doll clothes; we took you for walks until you couldn’t walk anymore. You went along with everything we put you through, and never thought to snap, bite, or growl. You hated it, but perhaps you didn’t realize you hated it. You knew it was out of love, and you couldn’t turn down any kind of love.

You were always joyful, always playful, even when you got your cone, which you wore for the rest of your life. Everyone said it gave you character. You still loved to be held, still loved your belly rubs, still loved your walks and your meals. You loved being part of our family. If someone was upstairs and someone else was downstairs, you sat at the top of the stairs, holding the family together, making sure we were always a unit.

You were thrown when I left for college. You didn’t understand why I had left the family, and you were angry with me for trying to come back home the following summer. Eventually you made peace with me coming and going, and realized that the family was still a unit. That was the only thing that mattered to you.

I missed you when I was gone. I talked lovingly about you to my friends, and thought of you frequently. And as this inevitable time has approached, I’ve struggled deeply with the thought of you not being with me, of never being able to see you again. But no matter how far away you are, you will never truly be gone. You exist so deeply within my heart, you’ve become a piece of my very being, and that can never be erased.

This is because you taught me love in its purest form—wantless, genuine, heartfelt love, a recognition of the spirit in another. Everything must come and go, but the mark you’ve left upon our souls is eternal and indestructible. I wonder how such a tiny creature could leave such a profound shift in the world, but it’s because you are so much more than the little dog that has pranced around for thirteen years upon four little legs. Your spirit has transformed ours, has spurred a shift in the world. Is that God?

If I want anything less than to let you go, it would be for you to suffer as you do now. And so I now release you, into your highest form, into your pure and painless existence, knowing you will forever continue to inspire change in our lives, that you will never really be gone, even when no one is here to remember you. Your soft spirit has shifted the world; however subtly it may have begun, its momentum will drive us eternally.

Thank you, Molly, for who you are, and the gift you have brought to our family and our world.

Your loving sister,
Liz
April 24, 2012