As soon as Jeff and I bought our own place in Boston’s South End, back in 1999, we started looking for a dog. Every weekend we drove from shelter to shelter looking for just the right one. Some were too big, some were too small, some were too hyper. And then one day we wandered into the Animal Rescue League Shelter just a few blocks from our apartment.
As we walked past the kennels, I stopped in front of one where a little black dog with a white stripe down her forehead was curled up in a ball. The name tag on her kennel said “Angel”. After a few minutes with her, we knew this was our dog. The shelter staff explained to us that “Angel” had been bounced to a few different homes during her 18 months of life, and this was her third time back to the shelter. If we brought her back, it was the end of the road for her. This sealed the deal even more for us — she was coming home with us for good. We took her home, and changed her name to Molly.
She was a little nervous, but always sweet. She hated treats. She sometimes ate socks. She didn’t like riding in the car.She barked at ocean waves. She was sweet to our cats. She loved to chase other dogs in circles. Around. And around. And around. She was afraid of loud noises. She had breath so bad you could smell it a room away. She loved to sleep in bed when she could still get up on it. She loved to run with her best friend Looey. She’d jump for joy when she heard the word walk or the jingle of her collar. She was a good dog. A really good dog.
In recent years, that smiling sweet dog slowly slipped away into the senility and fog and tiredness that comes with extreme old age. And this morning we said our goodbyes to our dear 16 year old friend. Who now really is our “Angel”.
