Molly meets a husky puppy at the dog park.
Awwwwwwwww.

 

When you want to keep on playing, but are too tired to stand up:

 

One year ago today, I picked up Molly from the Milo Foundation in Richmond, CA, and invited her into my life. Though skeptical, she acceded that my house was probably better than life at the shelter. But, given all the different homes she’d had during her brief 7 months, she definitely had no faith that this was more than another whistle-stop.

She was a complete and total pain in the ass. She peed on the carpet of the stair landing before going outside. She whined incessantly. She was constantly either dogging my heels or finding weaknesses in the fences and running away. She ate pillows. She shredded toys. She shredded shoes. She stole and ate toilet paper, post-it notes, and just about anything else she could find in the trash or on my desk. She stole food from the kitchen counters. She dragged me around the block.

We had many long conversations (aka, arguments) about what I considered acceptable and what she considered necessary. I mended holes in fences. I tried to remove anything “interesting” from anywhere she could reach. With less to tempt her, she became satisfied with her toys. Gradually we figured it out.

 

I particularly remember the first time I took her to the Alameda dog park. It’s a huge dog park with an equally large population of pups. No sooner had we entered the gate than she was off, running across the park at warp speed. She ran, she jumped, she played. She ran, she jumped, she played. She ran, she jumped, she played. She was inexhaustible. Clearly it the best day of her life thus far. When she came over to me for a break, she just shook her head in wonderment. She told me that she could not believe places like this existed. Then she ran off to rejoin a pack careening around the fields. We were there for hours.

Somehow a year has passed. We have learned each other’s rhythms, though there is no doubt she wishes I had more energy. She’s become a teenager, disapproving of my aged demeanor. We don’t talk as much. She’s got friends of her own, bones to chew on, and holes to dig. But I’m still her dad. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This morning while vacuuming up some dirt, I asked, “Molly, what it is about vacuum cleaners that freaks dogs out so much? Is it the sound? The way it blows air around? The smell?”

She said, “yes.”