My longest relationship

For 13 years, I've been stepping around -- or over -- this furry pile of gorgeousness:



Yes, I'm one of those non-PC people who BOUGHT a dog from a hoity-toity breeder.

That's because my first foray into the world of doggie-adoption ended horribly. A day after bringing my new mixed-breed puppy home, she became violently ill. Turned out she had parvo, which had been making the rounds at the shelter.

Parvo is a horrible virus. People, for the love of all that is canine, vaccinate your dogs.

I haunted the veterinary hospital, wondering whether to keep fighting or put the puppy down. In the end, I didn't have to make the choice. She died on the fourth day.

I was still set on owning a dog. But could I do that again? Adopt from a place that couldn't guarantee me a healthy pet? (Three other ailing pups at the hospital also had come from that shelter. And it was the only one in town.)

No. I couldn't watch an animal suffer like that again. I wanted to know as much as possible about the next dog I brought into my life.

So I researched reputable breeders and found one who was expecting a litter of Australian shepherds. That little mutt I'd adopted had had a lot of Aussie in her. I thought they were beautiful dogs, in both appearance and nature.

In preparation for Molly's arrival, I bleached my back yard like a madwoman. My neighbors stared and shook their heads. But parvo can live for a year on grass and floors, and even after my love affair with Clorox, I lived in terror that Molly would get it too.

For years, at the first sign of vomiting or illness, I would race my dog to the vet, convinced — in spite of numerous vaccinations — the parvo had gotten her at last.

I brought Molly home in the fall of 1994. That first day, I took her to the newsroom to show everyone my new pet. She took a dump right in front of the office belonging to an editor I loathed.

I knew then my dog was a supreme judge of character. Doesn't she look wise?



Years passed. Molly moved with me from newspaper to newspaper. She weathered my many relationships, never quite able to hide her disdain for most boyfriends. Strangely, she seemed to like Hubs, who once had the pleasure of feeling Molly's tongue swipe his ass at a most inopportune time.

She's a patient dog, especially with the kids, who've been known to drape her in Mardi Gras beads and call her a circus elephant. Sometimes they make her part of the Little Pony herd, or appoint her as the mother figure to all the stuffed puppies they've accumulated.



Molly's favorite pastime, however, has always been fetch. Frisbee, ball, doesn't matter. And if she catches something in mid-air, she does what Hubs calls the Victory Lap, circling the yard several times in a jubilant fashion.

Lately, we haven't seen any Victory Laps. My Molly is getting old. And while she's still quite spry, her age is starting to show. Most noticeable is the hearing loss. These days, I have to speak loudly into one of her floppy ears to make her understand.

She's lived a long, full and happy life and appears to be in good health. Still, I find myself fretting lately over when — and how — she will leave me. I'm prepared to make the tough decisions if need be. What scares me is being caught off-guard, of coming home and ...

I cannot make myself write it.

Years ago, I remember a friend of mine describing the death of his elderly dog, Hoot.

One beautiful afternoon, Hoot collapsed and died while chasing a Frisbee.

If I could choreograph my dog's death, that is how it would be.

I would throw the Frisbee and she would leap to catch it, unmindful of the arthritis in her left hip. And then, with her jaws clamped around the prized Frisbee, she would make a final Victory Lap.