April 1990 - May 6, 2002

Alas!

She is dead. I buried her: Mollie Rae, a tiny Minature Poodle - the best and truest friend I ever had. I do not say "best and truest friend" to slight my human friends but only to convey an inkling of my attachment and affection. The bond between us bordered on mystical. When she came to me, it marked a turning point in my life. Will her departure do the same? She is irreplaceable.

Tragedy Surprised Her

Had Mollie been ill, diseased or sufferring the pains and infirmatities of age, a fatalistic inveitablity would have prevailed. Death, although regretted, could have been prepared for and accepted. Because she was healthy, vibrant, lively, energetic, playful and frisky, she should have not died when she did not in the lightning-stroke manner that she did. Four days after a supposedly routine, non-threatening surgery to remove a fatty lump from her left side behind her armpit, Mollie was dead. I was devastated. Anguish devours me. I am being eaten alive daily. Sleep is broken; my appetite has fled.

The fact and and finality of my little friend's death has been hard for me to accept - me, a realist, a practical politican and no sentimentalist. I am a "public man" - a State Senator- not given to displays of emotion. My near existance is fraught with controversy, treachery and other unwholesome influences that can sour a person and turn the heart flinty. A hard game makes a hard man. I was rescued from being consumed by bitterness and vengefulness by the purity and goodness of my little friend.

Obligation to a Friend

I am writing under the duress of profound sadness and intense emotional distress - but with total honesty, without shame or embarressment. I must do this. It is cathartic. Most importantly, however, I must do it for Mollie because of how much she means to me. I am discharging my responsiblity to a special friend - to let people know that Mollie lived, that she mattered greatly, that I miss her beyond words almost beyond endurance. Without exaggeration, she had become my life. this writing manifest the hold she still has one me, for no one but she could bring me to the point of revealing my feelings in this manner.

(What does not kill, makes one stronger. When I have passed through this wrenching ordeal. I shall make Goliath seem as Tom Thumb.) As a loner without a lot of friends and no attachment to material things, I invested an extraordinary abundance of emotional capital in Mollie for twelve years. Others may have a spouse, children, religion - something to provide a distraction. Practically everything now reminds me of Mollie, painfully so, because she was part of practically everything that I did and thought.

We cared for each other and showed it in many ways. Brushing my teeth or slipping into my shoes put Mollie on high alert, for it usually meant I was going someplace; and if there was chance to tag along, she did not want to miss it. We went everywhere together, be it to the store or my Lincoln office. She relished car rides at all times of the day and night. I had only to say, "Do you want to go?" She always was ready to hit the road but never wanted to linger at any destination. We no sooner landed than she was ready to take off again. The"going" was what Mollie loved, not the arriving or staying.

When I was writing, reading or typing at my work table, she would lie down at my feet. If I ignored her too long, she interruprted my work to demand her "propers." From habit I remain careful where I place my feet least I disturb her. Old habits . . .

We often tussled and roughoused - she growling, snarling and baring her teeth which she never clamped on my hand hard enough to leave a mark; then she abruptly would shift gears and move close to nuzzle and be carressed and petted. Although not literally true, we were "always together," much like to becoming one."

If we were in the yard and the woman or girl walked past and Mollie would bark, I would short-circuit any negative reaction by saying with a smile, "You just passed the beauty test because Mollie only barks at beautiful women and pretty girls." A smile was returned, and Mollie had won a friend for life.

She was an attention-grabber and scene stealer, called by some, "Miss Mollie". When people saw me along or in a store, they would ask, "How's that little poodle?" Her face, framed by fluffy, weeping-willow ears adorned with pastel colored bow ribbons, often was visible in the passenger-side window of my (our) car. When anyone approached while Mollie was in the car, she would raise so much caine "protecting" me, that the person would jump back, startled. Calling attention to her diminutive size, I once tried to assure a man she would not bite. His response: "She might be little, Senator, but those teeth can chew up bones, and I don't want them to get ahold of me!"

At the end of a visit to the shop where I no longer barber, I would say "Gotta go. Mollie's in the car." When raised eyebrow looks passed among customers (and my hasty explanation that Mollie was a poodle brought skeptical grins) I was forced to fetch her to forestall any rumor that I was "stashing" a woman.

In the Legislature, I invoked her name during debate (thereby preserving her memory forever in the official transcripts). The last day of the 1997 Session, for example, I reminded the senators of my distate for their resolutions congratulating people for trifling reasons: "I will not offer the resolution that I was going to [submit] to make a point. I can make the point by speaking. My Legislative Aide who has worked with me for over a score of years, has a Minature Poodle. Her name is Mollie Rae. I really like that little dog. I like all animals, but I particularly like this little dog because she likes me. What I was going to do was put in a resolution to congratulate Mollie Mae for not running in the street. But I won't offer it." Point made.

Whimiscially Missing Mollie.

My home is a bleak, dreary, desolate, lonely place. The staring windows weep in despair. The walls hold their breathe, listening for sounds of her and wondering why there is only silence. The floors wistfully yearn to hear again the slight, familiar weight of her gentle footfalls. The large pillow that was her bed retains the impression where she lay and mourns. Her absence makes my abode empty; it has lost it's soul. Simply sharing space with a responsive, living presence meant so very much.

I was not even Mollie's owner; my friend, Cynthia Grandberry was. Ironically, when Cynthia acquired Mollie, I warned that the little poodle would "get in her way." be burdensome and require an inordinate amount of time, care and attention. (Take a look at me now!) As events unfolded, Cynthia permitted the flowering of a "joint custody" arrangement that gradually resulted in Mollie spending the great bulk of her time with me, which was the way I wanted it. Either or both of use would take her to the vet. Monthly, I escorted her to the groomer, Linda Rhode, (a kind, gentle, sensitive soul) to keep Mollie from looking like a little vagabond sheep, and because she needed her little nails clipped and hair removed from her ears to prevent infection.

Rough Time

A devoted, loyal, constant, affectionate, responsive, living being cannot be snatched abruptly from one's dlily life without leaving a hole. Mollie was such an integral fixture of my existence, I never dwelt morbidly or apprehensively on the inevitable day when she would cease to be. I joked that I might "croak" first. Her sudden, totally unexpected death has brought me up short. It stopped me in my tracks. I had no idea anything could open flood gates of emotion and leave me utterly helplessly and grief stricken. I certainly never anticipated being brought to my knees by the death of a little poodle. I do not begrudge others their cheerfulness and gaiety. My misery desires no company, only solitude - for remembering, reflecting, grieving in my own way.

My anguish is all but unbearable. The overpowering sense of loss and accompanying feeling for emptiness are oppressive to my spirit and excruciating to my emotions. Time will dull and eventually cure the pain. The mind and emotions are not engineeered to bear such burdens perpetually without relief. Ironically, the mental images I most treasure cause the deepest ache. A "mind like a steel trap" is a marvelous asset until its unforgiving jaws snap shut on its possessor. Ultimately, these memories that now bring such pain and grief will, themselves, become nature's healing balm.

Queries

How could one so small, so profoundly affect my life, both by her life and by her death? (Cynthia observed, in wonder, at the burial: "She looks so little.") Why has Mollie's death elicited such profound responses from me since she is "not even a human being?" Because was was my friend and my responsibility. If I did not feed her, she did not eat. If I did not see to her health needs (along with Cynthia), she would languish. If I did not provide shelter, she would perish. She had been removed from a "state of nature" and deprived of the capability to survive on her own. Hence, a very strong and special bond was forced.

As for human beings, they are free to make choices and can take care of themselves. Many of their misfortures are self-created, being "sins that carry their own punishment." My precious little friend, on the other hand, was an innocent. Of a truth, she was "not a human being." In many ways, she was so much better. She was a pure, unsullied, bright, shining light of nobility that bestowed and inspired "a love that passeth understanding."

Just a Dog

I am fully aware that those who never had experienced such pure, guileless, unconditional compansionship may scoff: "But she is just a dog!" Those cruel words, "just a dog." are nearly as wounding, under these painful circumstances, as Mollie's death itself - which I mourn as I have mourned nothing before in my life. Those who have fallen under the mystic spell of the profound spiritual and emotional bond that readily developes with an animal companion, readily understand.

At Home

No matter how a day may have crashed and burned, I always found solace at home. Whatever time I got home, Mollie was waiting at the top of the stairs when I entered the vestibule. (My worst moments these days are when I get home.) My defenses came down. "Hey, Mollie Rae" was the standard greeting. She would frisk as if she had not seen me for days. Her nub of a tail would wag as best it could her whole body wriggling. She was the personification of sheer delight at the end of the separation. When I mounted the stairs, she was beside herself with unmitigated joy which, in turn, buoyed my spirits on a flood of good feeling that swept away the negatives of the outside world. This was "Mollie Time" and Mollie's time.

Having been indoors all day, she was eager to go outside. When I turned back toward the stairs, the tiny bundle of energy and enthusiasm would bound down the stairs and dance impatiently by the door until I swung it open. The first order of business was an inspection of her territory. Head high, haughtily prancing about the yard, she would pause and sniff at various points along the chainlink fence enclosing her domain to determine (I suppose) if any stray canine has passed that way while she was inside. If children were playing nearby, she greeted them with her imperious, surprisingly forceful (for one so small) bark. Unlike other little dogs, Mollie did not yap. She barked - with style and pizazz.

When she scratched at the door for admittance, I straightaway responded - and had her food and water waiting as any attentive valet does. The truth is, Mollie "ran" me. If she had hands, I would have been wrapped around her little finger. As it was, she wrapped me around her little paw. I was pleased to do whaever I could to make her life pleasant and happy. She certainly gave much to me.

Some people thought I "spoiled" her. So what if I did? My life was mine to live as I pleased; she was a huge part of it and held a special place untouched by any other. What some call "spoiling", I call appropriate care and consideration for one who deserved it. We understood each other very well, including body language. I knew her separate barks: (1) to go outside, (2) to play, (3) when she simply desired attention, and (4) when she wanted to be fed. She recognized and responded to vocal nuances when I spoke to her. I never chided her, raised my voice or lifted by hand against her. Friends do not hit.

Poodles are ranked second in intelligence behind Border Collies. A friend of mine who trained dogs and holds a doctorate in pyschology said, "My sister has a poodle, a little bitty thing. I have watched her. She may not be human, but she's right next door." Mollie is at the front door. I place her at the top of the heap.

End of the Affair

Now, Mollie is gone, forever - buried - and so is a part of me. I shall never see her again. A gaping hole is in my life, a surprisng amount of which was organized around her and her "ways." What I so tenderly and considerly buried was not Mollie. I knew it then and know it now. But emotions are strange, tumultous forces not competely subject to our control (just as Mollie, having a mind of her own, would not submit to complete control.) No, it was not Mollie I put in the ground and covered with earth but only "remains" the physical leftovers after the essential has flown. Something more substantial, meaningful and enriching remains with me from Mollie and our years of companionship. I have "precious memories" as says the song" "How they linger; how they ever flood my soul. In the stillness of the midnight...."

If asked to declare the most important thing Mollie did for me, this hard man would not hestitate an instant because the answer wells up from deep within where reside those "groans that cannot be uttered." The most important thing Mollie did for me flowed from the little one's death. In her final hour, she showed me that I do, indeed, have a heart - because it is broken.

What is the source and explanation of this deep attachment? Perhaps it grew out of my personal responsibility for her safety, welfare and happiness: or the fact that she was the only being whose life was absolutely in my hands. It may even be that her diminutive size has a bearing. Undoutedly, her intelligence, character, disposition, devotion, unconditional loyalty, sassiness and playfulness contributed mightily.

Whatever the source or explanation, the attachment is real and has survived beyond death: beyond the grave.

Paradoxically, it is impossible for me to say enough about Mollie, but is is possible to say too much. So, I end this.

Farewell, my beloved friend, farewell!

Finally, to the thinkers and philosophers: If ordinary imagination can "make a cloudy day sunny" my wild and restless imagination can resurrect my little friend and breathe life into her - in my mind, where "reality" may be "realer" than existential reality; and therefore, I possess her more fully and completely than when she lived. "Death, where is thy sting? Grave, where is thy victory."

copyright Senator Ernie Chambers 2002