Mollie

We have a dog.

After talking about it for nearly a year, we bought a boxer puppy last week. Charles wanted a boxer. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I wasn’t sure it was a boxer. I suggested Australian shepherds and labs, one of Charles’s brother’s Rottweiler puppies… I suggested mutts. Finally, I said I wanted a cat. I wasn’t sure I wanted a cat either, but Charles reacted so seriously and so negatively that I kept on suggesting the cat and he kept on reacting.

Part of the difference in vision was a difference in background. When I think of the dogs of my youth, the word “stupid” is the first term that occurs. That is not because our dogs were particularly stupid, or because I particularly did not like dogs. It was the result of an attitude that had saturated in the clan for years, and we took no steps to ensure that anything changed.

Dogs were for granted in my home growing up. We always had one or two around. Our pleasure in them lasted through the naming process. Dogs were named things like Whiskey, Bouncer, or Bullet. After that, we barely noticed them, and they barely noticed us. To us, a dog was something that lived outside, required no maintenance, and was left to enjoy itself which it usually did in a most voluptuous and unreserved fashion. To the dog, the family was a geographical location, a general vicinity to which it belonged… and I do mean general.

My dad and his many brothers lived on properties that mostly connect to the farm on which they were raised and where their parents still live and connect to the family business, a sawmill. There were acres and acres of mountain ground for a dog to roam on. Every family had a dog, except for the ones that had several dogs. It was the family code to despise everyone else’s animals and hotly defend your own. The dogs lived like Hutterites, but only slightly more so than the children. If you required the presence of a dog, or a child, we started with phoning the uncle down the lane, then the one over the field, then the grandparents, and finally the sawmill which is probably where we should have started the search in the first place.

If the tables were turned, Mom looked out the window and would say something like, “oh that stupid Festus is here again…” (Festus is a dog, not a child.) We would say, “Go home, Festus! Dumb dog.” This was the most sanguine of orders. None of the neighborhood dogs had it in their makeup to understand, much less follow through on such an order. Festus was no dumber than any other dog around, but technically, it was one of the cousin’s dogs therefore it was dumb. So we live and let live… Unless one of the dogs started killing kitties. After the cats grew up, we didn’t care so much, but if kitties died, little girls cried. Dogs that killed kitties were immediately in the black book.

My dad frequently acquired dogs, like he acquired other animals and other pieces of property. Sometimes one of his personal friends donated the animal or property as a favor. Sometimes Dad saw a bargain and bought the animal or item as a favor to himself. Most of those dogs though were relegated to life outside of domesticity, for Mom barred the door.  Dad said that was okay with him, this was his dog anyway, he intended to keep it for himself… No one else would have a share in his dog. This went hard for the dog because Dad would house it at the sawmill. A dog at a sawmill was a prime target for teasing. A dog at the sawmill was nearly always marked up with spray paint, and was usually brutalized to the point that Dad had to tie it up, especially when the breed was pitt bull.

My mom never allowed animals in the house. She made exceptions for our kitties when we were little and over protest, my pet coons were kept inside for the first weeks of their lives although I had to take them to the sawmill with me when I went to work. I used to carry the coon out the door with me and tell it, “Say bye to Grandma” just to hear Mom sputter. To my memory however, dogs never ever came in the house, and they didn’t really try to.

My youngest uncle had a couple of Jack Russell puppies for awhile named Conadaleeza Rice and Pringle, representing two of his infatuations, I suppose. He used to wish that Ms. Rice would be president. Grandma would let them in the house, and we used to play happily with them. They were so small however, that we never really thought of them as dogs. This uncle and his wife now have two Yorkies which are clothed, fed, and adored, taken to the vet and dog sitters, borne about in carriages because their legs get tired, but I really don’t think the extended family will ever ever be entirely reconciled to such sacrilege.

My brother Clark occasionally had flights of imagination that led him to try hunting or herding dogs just like he occasionally had flights of imagination that led him to try cowboying on a small scale where he kept a four wheeler to catch his horse to catch his calves with a rope so that he could brand and vaccinate them. He had a blue tick hound at one point that promised great things in the way of coon hunting. He persuaded me to go with him one freezing, raining November night. The dog, released, disappeared up the mountain in hot pursuit of a rabbit. Clark said he would probably be up and down the mountain several times, trying to catch the dog, and I elected to return home. I tried, but in the process I drove the pickup truck over a bank and had to be rescued. Dogs, you see, are a lot of trouble.

That was my background. Charles was raised in a family that loved animals and dogs especially. Dogs were a hallowed part of family life, loved and trained and played with, wept over when killed, remembered with fondness for years. The family can still recite anecdotes and tell of the personalities and habits of these animals. Their dogs were mostly purebred and cost a bit of money. On top of being a cherished pet, their dogs were also a business proposition. Where my family always had male dogs to avoid the issue of progeny, Charles’s family always had females which were bred for purebred puppies which were sold for good money. Their dogs were not allowed to be sissies, however, and although a part of the family, they were never quite referred to as such. The dogs were allowed in and out of the house, but since they were well-mannered, sociable animals, I, fresh out of the afore-scribed animal culture, found it quite easy to adjust to.

When the family goes to the lake, the dog goes along because it is so hot (on the Canadian thermometer) and might want a swim. When we have a barbecue, we save our bones to take home to Chico, the big, beautiful rottweiler. When Charles and I stop in at his folks, the dog is the first to welcome us, and we are always glad to see her. The dog does not go far from home, and she always comes when called. She does tricks. If the family goes away for a trip, the dog is beside herself with delight when they return, and the family is almost as happy.

There are certain breeds of dogs that the Burkholders like better than others, and they discuss them occasionally. Alyssa, who is only eight, frequently updates me on her three most favorite kinds of dogs, from which rottweilers are conspicuously missing. This doesn’t have anything to do with Chico herself,  but is due to a misunderstanding of personalities between her and the brother that owns Chico.

Recently, Chico had her first litter of puppies, awaited by all of us with pleasure. We could just imagine a bunch of little Chicos running around. Around the time she was due, my mother-in-law and Alex, the owner, stayed near by. The eight forthcoming puppies were as lovable as expected.

Tragedy soon struck. Three of the puppies developed vague and horrible symptoms. They wobbled and fell over and had seizures. They couldn’t walk straight. They were very sick.  We thought they were dying. One horrible Saturday, Charles and I stopped in for a visit and found three puppies staggering or lying around, thrashing madly in fits or being sick on the linoleum. The family was in an uproar. A bad case of worms was behind it all, and after some appropriate care, they recovered, only to have one of them fall off the deck and break its leg.

By the time they were all healed and sold for significant amounts of money, Alex was unsure about the wisdom of Chico having any more puppies. Her future looks barren at this point. He doesn’t like to endanger her, and he says having puppies is stressful.

Charles sent me a puppy ad the other morning, and from the moment I saw the pictures of the puppy, my qualms about boxers vanished. We went that evening and picked the puppy up, an 11-week old female boxer puppy. Charles and I discussed names for the puppy on the drive over. I had had half a day to think this over and had a number of potentials ready. The name had to be just right, classic but not too common, a little bit hip.

I love names. Ever since I was ten, I have had a running list of baby names for my future family. When we drive, I keep a lookout for names of cities and roads and locations that please my fancy. I brought up the subject of names for our prospective family fairly early in our dating relationship, to Charles’s astonishment.

Recently, Charles and I have had more occasion to talk names in preparation for our baby that is due next February. Usually, I am the one initiating and driving these discussions. We agreed on two names for our baby promptly at the beginning of my pregnancy, but looking back, I suspect Charles agreed mainly because it still seemed an irrelevant discussion to him. The closer we get to having a real child on our hands, the more passive aggressive he gets about name choices that I thought were set in stone.

I made a suggestion for a name after we had gone to bed the other night. We had just been talking, but when I brought up the name, Charles didn’t reply. I poked him.

“Ask me in the morning,” he mumbled.

“But you’re awake.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, twitching energetically, “I can just barely grunt in reply.”

So… I was surprised to discover that Charles had put some thought into the question of the puppy’s name. The puppy was to be named Mollie. I didn’t object to the name necessarily. I just wasn’t sure it was right. Besides I felt indignant at the ambush.

I tried a diplomatic approach. I said it was a nice name. I suggested other names. I looked at lists of dog names online.

“I know!” I said, like it had just occurred to me. “Ithaca.” I love the word Ithaca. It sounds like thomeone hath a lithp. Ithaca. What a beautiful name.

Charles said he would name me Ithaca.

We were on the way home with the puppy, and Charles said he would really like to name the puppy Mollie.

I parried. “Mindy?”

“Mollie.”

Mollie it was.

We stopped in at Charles’s folks. Two of the boys were home. They came out and promptly melted. “Well look at that.”

We sat on the lawn and admired the puppy while she played. We noticed her expression, her markings, her size, the way she ran, her personality, how well she and Chico played together.

“Mollie,” said Alex, owner of Chico. “I like that name.” He added. “I’m jealous. Now I want a boxer.”

Charles’s parents were away on a trip, but they video called us to inspect the newest addition, and they melted in adoration, thrilled with the idea of a boxer puppy. They said she was beautiful and admired her from afar. They also liked the name.

I sent my family some pictures. They said she was cute. The next morning, Mom sent me a message. “Is this to be a house dog?” I said no, yes, well kind of. Mom said be that as it may, she was not this dog’s grandmother.

Mollie has come to stay.