I have shared a lot of sad things with you folks the last year or so. Talking about what my family and I went through, with my wife’s death and then the demise of the family pet, Gus, shortly after. So today I want to share a bright spot with you. At least, I hope it turns out to be a bright spot. When my wife passed away I knew there was little chance I would ever find someone to replace her. Yeah, she was that good, and she could have done much better than me, but thank God she didn’t. I think she felt sorry for me. But when Gus went away I knew there was another dog out there for me somewhere, someplace, because...well...they are a whole lot less complicated than finding a good wife. They are also a whole lot easier to keep happy.
So I am going to introduce you to Molly, and those of you who love dogs like I do, know what I am talking about, and the rest of you—well, I understand why some of you don’t want a dog, but I will never understand why someone would dislike dogs. Yes, maybe an unruly dog, or one that just dragged a dead skunk home, but all dogs? No. Those same people that hate dogs don’t hate all of mankind for the bad ones we see in that category, and believe me, there are quite a few of them. At least in the circles I run in.
“Molly” is a white Lab puppy and I got her when she was seven weeks old. A new puppy is as much work as a new baby but you can’t put a diaper on them and you can’t put a cork in them. I’m not a math major but I did work out this formula as it applies to a puppy. W + PC – SQ = Poop squared. For your info W is water and PC is puppy chow, and poop—well, come on—I don’t have to explain that, do I? I was asked to give her a more formal name than Molly for her American Kennel Club papers. Something more regal, more aristocratic, they say, so I have named her, “Madame Poops a Lot of Big Pine Trail.” I certainly hope she outgrows that name as time goes on.
Gus lived fourteen years so I forgot a lot of things that puppies do. I now have no shoelaces in three shoes. My hooded sweatshirt has turned into bedding for her, and it is just a matter of time until she eats the zipper out of that. It’s a Vikings sweater so no big loss there. Yesterday, she chased her tail until she fell in her water dish, and the teething toy I spent four dollars on, still lies untouched. The company that makes them would make more money bagging up old tennis shoes and selling them. I usually sleep seven hours a night, and Miss Molly’s potty breaks are not that far apart, so I have put some papers down for her. With the news we read nowadays, I think that’s a fitting use for newspapers. I let her out during the night and she did her mess in front of the door and I stepped in it this morning, on my way to the mailbox for fresh newspapers. It could have been worse; she could have lit it on fire and rang the doorbell.
If I live to the average age most men in my family live, then Molly and I will be ready for checkout about the same time. But no more talk of death and dying—long live Madame Poops a Lot of Big Pine Trail.-- Bye for now.-- Mike and Molly
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