A Letter to Molly

Dear Molly,

Happy birthday. Three years under the Harman Hood is something quite colossal to celebrate, considering what all we've been through.

Like this,

Just six short months into your life and BAM! you're wearing a cone, purple tail "cast" and sentenced to six weeks behind bars, crate bars that is, with little hope beyond that.

But you didn't realize who had your back...well pelvis more specifically. Thanks to Grant who said, "we'll pray for her everyday," in response to your bleak prognosis, your ominous future turned promising. While the x rays showed no healing, your behavior did.

And while we laugh and call you the "Miracle Dog," perhaps you are. Because while we were so thankful for your recovery, our answered prayer, it hasn't quite been a cake walk since then and yet, here you STILL are.

Here you are after multiple escapades through the neighborhood, with four of us in hot pursuit.

 You're stubborn Molly, really stubborn.

Because even with cajoling with treat laden hands or simply the perseverance of the four of us who refuse to leave you all alone in unknown territory, you remain faithful to whatever has caught your eye, or nose, while remaining oblivious to our calculated strategies. 

In fact, you've caused me to resort to embarrassing techniques that I'd be ashamed to confess to the Dog Whisperer. Techniques that include growling deeply while saying your name in hopes to transform me into the Alpha. Or sprinting toward you hoping to scare you into surrender. I've unsuccessfully tried to corner you but, well, that pelvis healed just fine because your moves are NFL worthy.

Mine are apparently not.

For certain, the neighborhood has seen me at my worst when tracking you. Not only is my temper being tested and put on public display, so is my fashion. You see, it appears you like to run off early in the morning, leaving me with no choice but to follow in my pajamas, with no makeup, and wearing boots so that I might have a fighting chance against all those briars you weave through and the mud you always seem to find.

So, there I am, three kids following me, growling, uncombed hair, pajamas, sometimes a coat, and rain boots, that sometime turn into track shoes when I must resort to the ole sprinting technique. It's really not helping our homeschool image.

And yet, to you, it's all fun and games, like that time you hid under our neighbor's hot tub deck for, maybe hours. All the while, I'm trying to corral you out not realizing at the same time Kate is being devoured (okay not really DEVOURED) by fire ants leading me to "pants" poor Kate, thus making an already awkward situation MORE awkward. 

But, you're our miracle dog.

You've run off a couple of times that we did give up on you, well I did, and maybe Kate and Grant. I left your fate up to Facebook. But as Hannah waited patiently (and tearfully) on our back patio, I assured her you'd be back. And back you came. I mean, you survived being smashed by a car with a slim chance of living and yet, you survived. You were covered in so many prayers I think you'll be around for a long, LONG time.

Yes Molly, it's really just amazing I haven't given up on you. I know I've said some hurtful things to you, like, I'm ready to get rid of you, among other more severe words.

I may have muttered these words after that time you threw up on our stairs and then somehow managed to do the same on Hannah's head.

Or it could have been after one of the multiple times you've found a way to relieve yourself in the house.

Or those many, many times you randomly throw up.

I'll try not to ruminate on the time you ate MY. WHOLE. CHICK FIL A. SANDWICH. when I left a few brief moments to answer the door.

Really Molly?

And don't get me started on the late nights after I take you out and you come back in only to sprint up the stairs and jump into Kate's bed. Like I wouldn't notice Molly. You ruined your chance to sleep with the kids after peeing in Kate's bed. She promises it was drool but you and I both know NOTHING drools THAT much.

And taking you on a walk, well, that's sheer torture, literally. If you're not yanking my arm off, my hand is subject to leash burn because of the tight grip I must keep in order to practice the "Cesar Milan Control." I think it's all a farce.

Listen, all of this makes your drinking out of the toilet and trying to lick the dirty dishes in the dishwasher child's play and not even noteworthy.

Yes Molly, you've miraculously made it three years, and by miraculously I don't mean simply because you survived being run over. You survived ME. Be thankful the kids love you. Be thankful you're cute. And be thankful that like all of us, you mellow with age. I think I will truly call you man's best friend after about six more years pass..as long as you still maintain control over your bladder.

Here's to many more adventurous years, Molly and then, many, MANY unadventurous years.

Love,

Jessica