Plans change

The next time I see Molly she is trotting down our road. I am doing dishes in the dull light that seeps over the windowsill before me at the end of a grey overcast day. I am lost in thought about one thing or another when I glance up from the sudsy water at movement on our always-quiet road.

My thoughts catch in my brain when I recognize her, a dog I thought I would never see again. A few steps behind marches her owner, a bunched up leash flashing back and forth in one hand as Molly skips ahead. I would know those ears anywhere, I think as I shake water from my hands and dry them hastily on a tea towel.

I grab my coat and stuff my feet in to my boots and slip out the door before Murdoch can become aware there is another dog in his woods and he is whipped into a frenzy.

“Hello,” I call cheerily, thinking perhaps they have come for a walk. I meet Molly beneath the low branches of a pine tree where the path to our door joins the driveway.

“If you want her, she’s yours,” says the man as he strides up to me, the words rushing out on top of each other as if they are suddenly released after being caught in his throat.

“What?” I say, taken aback by the urgency in his voice. “What happened?”

The words continue to tumble out, his accent is thicker today and it is laced with the faint scent of whisky. He looks like he has been trying not to cry.

He speaks quickly and colourfully. Every other sentence is an apology, “excuse my language, but I’m Irish and I’m p***ed off.” I assure him I am not offended, my blood is Scottish and Irish, I tell him. I get it. But I don’t fully understand what went wrong. It is something to do with the company that was going to ship Molly, “I don’t trust them,” he says. There is something more about a lengthy, circuitous route and uncertainty about when she actually might arrive in Ireland.

“But there must be another way,” I say.

“No,” he is adamant, “We are not taking her. We’ve made our decision. So she’s yours if you want.” And he starts to tell me how wonderful she is.

“I’ve had German Shepherds all my life. My dad got me my first one when I was a boy. And Molly is the best I’ve ever had.”

He shows me how she is trained with hand signals and I watch as he stands tall before her and barks out commands, raising his hand this way and twisting it that, and Molly stares him in the eye, as though reading his thoughts, and performs perfectly.

I am heartbroken watching this man and his dog. And I try to put myself in his shoes and I think, I couldn’t do it. I could not leave my dog behind. If Bear had been unable to travel with me somewhere, I wouldn’t go. And even now with Murdoch, as difficult as he has been and can still be, I couldn’t leave him behind. It would be excruciating to have to give him away.

“You have to be firm with her,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “She will push you.”

I nod, I know all about pushy dogs.

We do have a dog now, I tell him. He didn’t know. We agree Murdoch should come outside and meet Molly.

“He has a strong personality,” I say over my shoulder with my hand on the doorknob, and I quietly pray that he will not be a complete jerk, that he will not go crazy and refuse to listen and make this man have second thoughts about the beautifully trained Molly staying here with someone who obviously can not control her dog.

Okay, here goes, I think as I turn the doorknob. Murdoch comes bounding over the threshold and crowds into Molly’s face, where she stands with her owner, looking a little startled.

There are a lot of stiff stances and posturing and paws placed firmly on backs and at first there is Molly slinking away trying to figure out this strange creature. It is me who is apologizing now for my overbearing dog. But it is okay, says the man. He knows dogs, he knows dogs with strong personalities and he is not worried. There are a lot of ‘Heys’ and ‘Nos’ from myself and the man. And then Molly turns and barks at Murdoch, stands her ground, and I think, this could work.

Murdoch needs a dog who won’t be pushed around, he needs someone to keep him in check sometimes. He needs someone to play with now that he is the only dog on our road and his best friend is gone.

Molly is a King Shepherd, he tells me, a breed I later learn is made up of German Shepherd, Great Pyrenees and Alaskan Malamute. She is from a breeder in Montreal and was classified as stubborn and difficult to train but he has worked with her diligently and, he reiterates, she is the best Shepherd he has ever had.

It is almost dark now and the dampness has settled in for the night, it has started to permeate our coats. He and Molly still have to walk home. It is not far, but they are both dark shapes and there will soon be no light. We agree that in a few days we will bring Murdoch to Molly’s turf and Morgan can meet her and we can decide what is to be done. Of course we know this is all just a formality.

We wave goodbye and I go inside with a heavy heart and mixed emotions. I call Morgan to tell him the news and then I go to the computer and start researching how to take your dog to Ireland. There must be a way, I think.

Meeting Molly

Ever since Max, I can’t look at a German Shepherd without my heart melting just a little. So when I stepped from my vehicle on that dark evening in late November and saw those giant ears pointing so regally up to the indigo sky, my entire spirit buoyed me forward.

“Hello!” I said to the shadowy shape emerging from the darkness. She stood silently, her tail swishing in a friendly way from side to side, the tan spots on her eyebrows punctuating her dark face from the shadows that descended from the mountain behind.

I held out my hands to her and then ran them over her downy-soft head and down her back as she turned and trotted by my side towards the house.

The main door stood open and a square of yellow light glowed from behind the screen, defining the figures of two people.

“Hello,” I called as the dog and I climbed the wooden stairs to the porch. “Who is this?” I asked, indicating the dog at my side. Her name is Molly I’m told as she and I stand together outside the door, light now spilling on to her face so I can see her kind brown eyes.

“She’s beautiful,” I say as I run my hand over her head again. “I love your dog.”

“Do you want to have her?” Asked the man, who I had never seen before. I half laughed and stuttered and was unsure how to respond.

“She is lovely,” I say, “I’m sure I would love to have her,” I say, “Um, why?”

Well, he answers in a soft Irish accent, of course he is not giving her away. Molly is such a wonderful dog and she is going to move with him and his wife back to Ireland. He speaks of Molly as I would speak of my dogs, with great love and a great sense of connection.

“You’re going on an adventure!” I say to Molly. “That’s exciting.”

And then I step inside the house where I have come to buy some apple cider. The woman who lives here has an orchard behind the house. It is carved from the boreal forest at the base of the mountain and is somewhat of a hidden gem in our neighbourhood. I just discovered it last summer, this piece of paradise around the corner from my house.

The man is her brother-in-law and he explains that he and his wife have every intention of taking Molly to Ireland with them, but if for some reason things don’t work out, if something happens and they can’t take her…

Back at home, I tell Morgan about this black German Shepherd I met and how I may have agreed to adopt her. “Absolutely!” he says, “I’m in,” when I tell him the story.

Neither of us had been thinking about getting another dog right now. It is too soon after Bear, but maybe, we say, our hearts were separately searching.

I send a message to the woman at the orchard that if need be, Molly would be more than welcome in our home and we would love her and take good care of her.

We are told the couple has decided, without a doubt, that Molly is going to Ireland with them. There are shades of disappointment at first but then we think, perhaps it is for the best.

Hogmanay

New year, new sticks, new adventures.

 

Happy New Year!

The most beautiful day

Up behind our woods, where our forest peters out into the next forest that once was sheared to the ground, where the trees stand crooked and spindly, and beyond an army of rail-thin saplings marches away to the distant mountain, a shadow on the horizon, we walk on the trail we have carved in the snow.

It is silent here in the forest, the only sounds our feet squeaking over the packed snow of our winding path, and the rush of my breath captured inside the hood of my coat. The sun sits low in the sky somewhere beyond the trees, colouring it a creamy yellow that melts into the palest lavender.

I stop at the rising rush of wind, whooshing towards us from the mountain, the sudden sound from silence, and watch as it tumbles about the ragged edge of the woods, reaching in to knock cascades of snow from branches to shower magically through the air, capturing the fading light just so. It floats to the ground and sparkles on to my face like a million tiny bubbles exploding from a glass of champagne. 

Murdoch and Molly dig about in the deep snow for sticks, their faces disappearing behind white masks as I watch the wind weave through the treetops and the snow fill the air like fairy dust. And for a moment everything is just perfect.

A new face

We went to bed that night with flakes streaming past the porch light, flickering yellow and white against the blackness beyond. In the night, burrowed beneath blankets piled thick on the bed, we listen to the house creak and shift from buffeting winds. The next morning flakes fall fat and drift onto branches laden in white.

Winter is upon us.

Outside we cut a path through the ankle-deep snow, dusting it aside with each step in the muffled forest. December has crept in. This glowing world in white seems out of place somehow as though we should still be carving pumpkins and raking leaves.

But the dogs bound over snow-covered mounds, bury their noses beneath the white, delight in the falls of snow slipped from branches in great blankets to cover their backs. They tell me everything is as it should be.

Trees become snow sculptures and the forest is made of light. Ahead, two black shapes weave through the white, Murdoch slinking along the familiar trail, ducking under branches, leaping over downed trees and just behind him, a new black shape, tall ears pointed skyward, powerful legs making short work of the drifting snow, feet like lion’s paws stepping purposefully over this new path, a new path that will soon become a familiar path.

It is the first real snow of the season and I think of Bear and I think of Jack and I think of how much they are missed and how much they would love this. And I think about that week when life took an abrupt turn. That week when Jack died and our other neighbour’s house burned down and then Molly showed up.

Molly Malone, the King Shepherd with the black German Shepherd face and the Malamute fur who came from a loving family and is mistrusting of cameras. Molly Malone, who loves the snow, is completely unsure of cats and would be outdoors playing stick every waking minute of the day if she could. Molly Malone who is amazingly graceful on her feet for such a big dog, who is two years younger than Murdoch but acts like she is at least two years older, who has gigantic ears and piercing eyes and who has become a little bright spot in our neighbourhood.

Snow continues to sift down from the bright sky as we wind our way along the trail through the woods. We kick up swirls with our feet; send snow spraying out like white surf crashing against us on its way to shore. Two black shapes cut the trail ahead, one hops eagerly after the other, ears pointing to the sky, and I follow not too far behind.