When, in the darkness of early dawn, you come to wake
me for our morning walk, I will say “Molly is not
here!” River, I am going.

I will become the slight movement of air rubbing
against you, and I will become the water splashing you
in the shower.

In the fall, when the golden maple leaves shine on the
trail, you will feel the air stir at the wave of my
invisible tail. You will see the leaves lift as I
plunge my invisible nose into their sweet smell.

And when you walk swiftly up a steep path, I will be
there beside you, young again, prancing, drinking in
the crisp air. With your every breath, you will
breathe in my love and my joy, because I will be in
the autumn air all around you.

And when 5 o’clock comes, you will feel my nose
nudging your hand, you will hear my imperious bark, so
that you can recall it is you I depend on. Only now
you will scoop out only the food of your love, and
only my spirit will gobble it up.

But most of all, I will always be with you. You will
never need to leave me at home. My eyes will never
fill with the sadness of saying goodbye to you. When
you pack a suitcase, I will not need to climb into the
car to be sure I go with you. Wherever you are, I will
be. Mostly I will sleep quietly there, unobtrusively
at your feet. Just as it has always been, it will be
enough for me simply to be in the same room with you.

And when the winter snow comes, and you walk through
the ice and the snow and the harsh winds, I will be
there and no ice will form between my toe pads. I will
be there, taking up great mouthfuls of snow and
swallowing some and tossing some up into the air, and
you will be happy simply to be alive, because I always
will be there.

And when it is spring, and the tiny wildflowers sing,
and the fern forest recreates itself shoulder high out
of nothing, I will be there with you, dancing down the
path, and I will not need a leash, and I will run
after the deer without ever frightening them, and
without ever leaving your side.

And when it is summer, I will be in the hum of the
insects and the sparkle of dragonfly wings, and when
you sit very still in the summer sun, you will feel my
warm body softly relaxing beside you.

And when you reach down to stroke my head, and to
stroke underneath my chin and throat, I will sigh so
softly you will think it is only the breeze, and I
will lick your hand gently with my invisible tongue.

And when the summer subsides, and the time of my death
comes around once again, I will come to you wagging my
tail, valiantly loving my life, circling the lake,
climbing the mountain, surpassing the capability of my
failing body, and I will teach you again and again how
precious life is, and how death too is a precious
mysterious thing.

When you touch the big tumor that swells in my narrow
body, I will teach you to touch it with love. My body
will remind you of the beauty of Picasso’s pregnant
goat, my distended belly no less beautiful than a
melon ripening in the sun. Every year I will remind
you that death is a miracle too, death is a beautiful
thing, just as life is. My death every year will
become another gift that we give to each other as
friends, another transformation of our love.

And when you miss me, I will be with you then, to
comfort your sadness. And when you are able to move
on, and to pour your love into the world of the
living, I will be everywhere your love turns, greeting
you with my wagging red tail and my brown eyes soft
with love.

If you lash out at someone you love, and the violence
of your own need to control causes both of you pain, I
will be there with my hurt puppy eyes full of love,
helping you learn all over again that love is more
precious than your need for control, helping you know
that you are already forgiven, that the important
thing now is to grow.

And when someone asks you, “Where has Molly gone?” you
will tell them “Right here, right now, Molly is in my
body and in my soul, she is in the pupils of my eyes,
she is in the dance of the seasons, the rhythm of the
days.”

-- Communicated by Molly on the last day of her life,
lying with her head on River’s lap; transcribed by River

By the way, this is not about my Molly...this is
from a friend, and she also had a Molly about 10 years
ago. This is her poem... It, though, is just
beautiful