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My Travels with Molly
I miss her. I surely miss her.
Molly was only six. She and I had lived together for more than five of those years. And for the last year of her life we had been traveling, just the two of us, side-by-side, to places alien to both of us, where the only familiar faces were each other’s.
I lost my first dog, Coggie, many years ago, while in school. Her loss still hurts, too. But time and memories have provided soothing antidotes to grief.
I remember the day we brought Coggie home from the SPCA. Her mutt status notwithstanding, Border Collie genes had dominated to paint her the traditional black and white. And, at less than six months old, she had enough working instincts to round up Adam, a muscular Tabby alley cat, and Eve, a delicate Siamese, and herd them from the yard through the kitchen door.
Even today I can see Coggie the puppy darting from side to side, authoritatively nipping at each cat’s paws, despite their hissing refusal to budge more than a few inches at a time. It wasn’t pleasant for Adam and Eve, I’m sure, but in the animal world, somebody had to exert leadership. And baby Coggie apparently thought leading (and herding) was her role.
Losing Coggie hurt, but time has a way of easing the pain. Eventually time will help with Molly, too. Meanwhile, I have lots and lots of memories – of Molly’s best behavior side, and of her naughty side. (I debate which I relish more.)
On one of our adventures together, we took a circuitous route from Greensboro to Washington, D.C. Instead of heading north on I-85, we drove east so we could island-hop on three separate ferryboats.
It was a dank, gray, late October evening when we arrived on Cedar Island, on the southern bank of Pamlico Sound, to board our first ferryboat. We parked the Jeep first in line for the next morning’s ferryboat trip to Ocracoke Island, and walked across the parking lot to a local motel.
As far as I could tell, we were the only overnight guests. And, at the time I ate, I was the only patron at the motel’s restaurant.
A dark, dreary day on the coast drew Molly and me closer.
After we had gone to bed, I returned to reading a murder mystery, which, no less, was taking place in a dreary, fog-bound coastal town.
I reached for Molly and encouraged her to snuggle. She gave in a little, but not as much as I wanted. I imagined her thinking, “I’m not the one reading about murders on a night like this.”
Could she have chuckled?
That’s when we heard it. A monstrous roar. Molly barked, jumped off the bed, and searched the room.
The roar startled me, too, but I had heard it before, at an air show – a screaming F-14 Tomcat, the U.S. Navy’s biggest and loudest fighter plane. I don’t know much about decibels, but I don’t recall hearing anything louder.
It appeared suddenly, out of nowhere, to rattle the motel room. I assumed the Navy was on a nighttime training mission at some nearby bombing target, since I seemed to remember that Ronald Reagan had previously sent the Russians packing. Both the hour and the murder mystery had made me slightly giddy.
A local resident called the low-flying fighters “the sound of freedom.”
Maybe so, the second time I heard it. Not the first.
I could not imagine what Molly thought she heard, though my imagination increased severalfold when I was around her.
Did she snuggle closer? I think she did.
Early the next morning, our two hour ferry ride to Ocracoke Island was a beaut, even with one initially shocking exception.
Since our Jeep was parked first in line at the terminal, we drove aboard the ferry first and parked first on the ferry’s bow, giving us an unimpeded view forward.
Molly crawled into the front passenger seat. We had sailed about an hour along the southeastern edge of Pamlico Sound, long enough to get relaxed, when Molly jumped up and began barking at something outside her side window.
By the time I saw the silhouette of what she saw, it was close, no more than maybe thirty feet away, and flying … no … soaring, soaring directly at us.
Molly continued to yell.
Neither of us had seen anything like it, especially not from our point of view – head-on, looking straight into its eyes. It was big and getting bigger, with a peculiar head that reminded me of a can-opener kids used to call a church key.
It swooped across the ferry’s bow, close to the Jeep’s windshield, close enough that its six-feet-plus wingspan momentarily blocked the morning sun, and soared on its way.
It was a North Carolina pelican. It was apparently playing with the ferry, with us, with Molly.
Yes, each time I miss Molly, I think of one of our adventures and we’re together again.
