I tell her I love her, and she wags her tail, not moving the rest of her body. (She's not a morning person, like her Mama). I tell her Daddy loves her, and she wags her tail. I ask her if she loves us back, and she wags her tail harder, and I ask her, "Will you love us forever? We will love you forever," and she wiggles and wiggles and wiggles, like she can barely contain the joy of having a place to call home. Or maybe that's how I feel. But I think she returns the sentiment.
When one of us picks our Molly up from my parents' house, or release her from her kennel, she is so excited to see us. She jumps up and wiggles her butt as fast as it will go, and sometimes if I'm lucky, she lands a kiss on my face. She's quite stingy with her kisses, so you know she must mean it. If she's been in her kennel, she goes straight to her water dish and takes a long drink, wiggling that little nub for all it's worth.
When times are tough, Molly shines. She worries and paces and attempts to soothe any way she can think how to. Her paws to my heart, licking my face, snuggling in tight.
And Molly is not slowed by her enroaching darkness, her blindness. She still loves to play fetch and run just for the sake, the pure joy, of running. She especially loves the snow.
When we drive in the car, she often negotiates her way onto our laps, throwing her head back between jaunts of sticking her face out of the window. She is looking for William or I to kiss her cheek or the top of her head, and she won't move her head out of the way until we do. She leads the way to our door every night, doing her signature cross-wise walk, checking out the dangers that may lie ahead; bikes locked to stop signs, empty wrappers, or god forbid, another mongrel. When we get to our door safely, she wiggles and wiggles and wiggles.
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When I get in bed each night to read a chapter or two of a book before I turn out the light, Molly jumps up on our bed and finds a place to snuggle in. when the light goes off, she jumps down on the floor on my side of the bed, and falls deep asleep. I often doze off to the sounds of her snoring, barking under her breath, and snoozling.
It is because of our Motowns that I notice so many things I might just breeze past otherwise: the joy of seeing someone after a long day apart; the thick, springy, green lawn; the sweetness of fresh summer air; a big bowl of yogurt; eating ice cubes on a hot day; the comings and goings of our neighbors (surely, they are all suspect); the sink-in-ness of the couch, the peace of an afternoon nap.
Life is just good when you have a dog.
