Into Each Life Some Dying Dogs Must Fall

Miami Cubans love a joke about their hated Fidel Castro: Fidel greets the president of Ecuador, who brings him as a gift a rare Galapagos tortoise, telling the dictator that they can live to nearly 200 years. Fidel accepts the pet, and then turns to his aide, and says: "Ah, the problem with pets. You get attached to them, and they die on you."

That's the problem with dogs --they don't live too long. But in the case of our comical Basset Hound, Miss Molly, fate gave her an extremely truncated span...

In late 2005, Wifey was already sad by the prospect of D1 leaving for college, and insisted we get another dog. I resisted, as I always wanted to live out the reality of the bumper sticker that reads "Life begins when the kids move away and the dog dies," but, as typical, I realized Wifey must get her way.

She always told me she loved Basset Hounds, as they made her laugh just by looking at them. Her friend Elizabeth had 2, and although the first one, Odie, was sort of nasty, Wifey was attracted to them.

So, as I'm the most goddamned romantic husband there is, I set out to surprise her, and found a Basset breeder in the Redland, in South Dade. I enlisted D2 and her friend Erica (after the breeder vetted me telephonically) and we traveled to the farm lands to Basset shop.

Like most dog fanciers, the breeder was a weirdo. She looked like Kathy Bates, and lived with a much younger fellow named Kirk. Her house and property (several acres) were CRAWLING with dogs --both Bassets and even stranger looking things called Griffon terriers, that looked like Spielberg creations.

She had 2 purchase ready pups, and Erica ended up choosing a brown bitch. We took her home, and she immediately fell asleep. Wifey came home, saw her, and asked "Is it real????"

I wanted to name the new dog after D1, to explicitly soften the blow of her absence, but she concinved me that would be the height of creepiness, and we settled on the homophone Miss Molly.

What an adventure had begun. We learned soon that, in contrast to the retrievers and spaniels we had owned, Hounds don't really ever obey. Sometimes, they acquiesce.

And, Molly had a dangerous habit --she swallowed rocks. Not mere pebbles, but golf ball sized mini boulders. The first time, we took her to the vet, and with laxatives, the rock passed. The second time required a rock-ectomy.

Thereafter, Wifey had our landscape guy Oscar put metal fences around the beds where Molly did most of her rock picking. She also strongly considered finding another home for Miss Molly, but the Ds protested strongly, and I surprisingly found myself lobbying to keep the Hound as well.

She made us laugh, often, indeed. There's nothing like the soulful eyes of a Basset Hound, and her clumsy, ungainly body are a sight to behold. Molly would somehow climb up to places like tables, and our front wall, and sit there like a dignified gargoyle. The Ds posted many a picture of these antics on the web.

When she'd pee in the house, which mercifully wasn't often, it'd be an impressive amount, which we named "Lake Molly." It was really hard to get angry at her. It always seemd like any criticism just sort of drew a dog shrug, like "Hey --this is who I am!"

Well, last Friday, while we were in the Bahamas, Mirta called. She was house/dog sitting. Molly was sick. When we returned, and took her to the vet, the news was confirmed --a very fast growing tumor in her pancreas. Molly was dying.

She's only 4 1/2, and the last days around Villa Wifey have been very sad. A Hound hospice, I call it.

The Ds' friends have come over to say goodbye, as has Wifey's friend Jeannette. Everyone hugs poor Molly.

D1's friend Hannah, a Stanford senior who lost her own Basset, drew a lovely picture of our "Beloved Basset," which we're going to get framed.

Last night, D2 spent hours lying on the floor stroking Molly, and crying. D1 has been moping around, too, as has Wifey.

As I write, Miss Molly's out front, sort of limping along through the foliage. She's stopped eating and drinking --Wifey has been forcing chicken and water down her throat.

This am, I walked through the family room and stepped in probably the last "Lake Molly." I got misty eyed myself, even though I'm the most stoic one around here.

So, the journey given to this goofy dog is a short one, it appears.

But, like all great pets, she'll be in out hearts long after her long ears, sad eyes, and awkward frame are gone.