A Canine Bequeathed

My heart breaks during the most beautiful parts of every day. I try to avoid it now, as much as I possibly can. My most cherished memories were those in which she was radiant in the sunlight, just after sunrise or just before sunset. Her skin shimmered. There was always a sparkle in her eyes. She saw the beauty in everything, except herself, of course, and always found new ways to appreciate nature’s splendor. She’d frantically tidy up and finish her work, scrambling to be outside before the golden hour hit. If it were morning, she’d have a cup of coffee made to take with her. Often, she’d take her camera. Sometimes, she’d go with nothing at all and just listen.

While it was indeed picturesque, being outdoors was never so magical for me as it was for her. Though I could never feel that same, deep appreciation for nature as she did, her glee and tranquility were contagious. I would rush to fetch my leash to join her. Basking in her energy was enough to restore my sense of serenity. It gave me resilience on the worst of days. And it simply added to the delight in the best of times.

Rainy days were my favorite - not just a misty rain, but the torrential downpours. Though she loved the sunlight, she seemed even more moved by the rain. She would lace up her sneakers and bolt out the door. Most days, she’d jog. I abhor any kind of physical exercise, but I was all too happy to endure that rainfall just to be with her.

When I was just a puppy, she’d chosen me as her companion. It was the best day of my life. She’s gone now. One night, as I slumbered, her life had expired. When I awoke, every ounce of sunlight and happiness that she’d transferred to me had evaporated. Without her, I had no more purpose and no more joy.

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Here, I sit, flabbergasted. In what world can a person leave twenty thousand dollars to an animal? To be estranged from someone, you’d have to have had a strong relationship to begin with. My sister and I had never been close. The fact was the only connection we really had was that we were each other’s only family.

In the sixth grade, I was assigned a project. I was to complete a family tree. As an adopted child, this sparked my curiosity about my own biological family. I contacted the orphanage in search of information. The process was daunting and extensive (I ended up doing the project using my adoptive family). Still, I knew that with enough effort and desire, I could trace back to my roots. I persevered and a year later, I learned that the records in my city were horrendous back then. They were unable to find anything about my parents. They did have a record of my twin sister’s birth.

Thirty years ago, we were born in an overpopulated area of India, where bold aromas of exotic, rich cuisine permeated the air. In the slums of a city, teeming with poverty, I can only assume our mother was unable to care for her children. Many women who’d borne children out of wedlock found themselves in impossible predicaments. The shame they’d bring to their families along with an extra mouth to feed, led to tarnished reputations and no quality contenders for marriage. My sister and I were fortunate enough to be born in a hospital that had so much experience with cases like ours, that an orphanage was built as an extension to the hospital for lucky babies like us. Again, in our favor, adopting babies and toddlers has always been preferable, as it alleviates families of the psychological trauma that comes with older children, abandoned and unloved. Unfortunately for us, the family interested in my sister was only able to adopt one child. Our orphanage had no qualms about separating us two, and so it was. I was adopted a year later to a different family, but we had both ended up in the United States.

The findings of my research into my past shocked us all. I had no recollection of having a sister. My family was never notified as it was inconsequential to their adoption process. My parents immediately began working on locating my sister and we were introduced six months later.

She and I never bonded the way I hoped to, but we decided to always remain in contact. By the age of twenty, we both had lost both of our parents. My parents died in a car crash. Her parents both died of cancer. We vowed at that point to be each other’s family. We met briefly for holidays but otherwise only communicated via abbreviated, concise text messages.

And now she’s gone. With her death, I had lost the only biological family I had. I feel guilty for feeling numb to her death, but it is hard to grieve someone you never truly knew. Even in her passing, I could not understand her. She’d left me a dog, the dog’s belongings all neatly tucked into a duffel bag and a check made payable to the dog for twenty thousand dollars.

My attorney shifts uncomfortably in her chair. She is as perplexed as I am. She explains that she has never encountered a situation quite like this but according to her research, I am required to use the money for the dog’s benefit. We begin discussing how I might begin to spend this money for a dog. She explains that I could make purchases for food, boarding and medical expenses.

I returned home, still reeling in confusion. While I do not dislike dogs, I’d never wanted the responsibilities of owning one. It is difficult not to resent being burdened with my late sister’s pet and only remnant of her time here on Earth. The dog, a healthy beagle, is with me. Her tag indicates her name is Molly. What an odd name for a dog… I would have imagined “Spot” or “Patches,” but Molly is such a human name to assign to an animal.

Puzzled, Molly looks up to me. She’s sluggish, her eyes droopy and depressed. Given my disposition towards pets, even I feel terribly for her. Surely, one of her toys will cheer her up. I begin to sift through the duffel bag. I find a purple, rubber, spiked ball and offer it. Molly glances over and sniffs at it but turns away. I find treats and offer one. She inspects it carefully, licks it and lays back down, leaving a soggy, bone in my hand. Rummaging further, I find a notebook. It’s rugged, with a leather black cover. I glance at the first page and it’s blank. I turn to the last page and see nothing. Thinking to myself, this would have been a cute notebook if it didn’t now smell like a canine’s breath, I flip through the pages and am surprised that in the middle of the book, there is a page full of writing. At the top of the page, neatly printed, it says “Molly.” It appears to be a list of locations: “Spain, Italy, Alaska, Texas, India, Hawaii, France,” all listed on separate lines. Spain and Italy were crossed off.

I deduce she’d been traveling before her untimely death. I had never known she liked to travel. I had always felt as though I were grasping at straws, trying to find common ground with her. If I had known she enjoyed traveling, I would have leapt at the opportunity to share experiences and nurture the sisterhood I had always wanted. I think of my planner, overflowing with events and meetings and I’m disappointed that I would not get to travel for a long time. Suddenly, I’m overcome with the desire to know her through her adventures. I let this thought run wild, imagining taking Molly along with me, leaving behind my present life. It dawns on me. What if I use the inheritance for Molly to purchase plane tickets, book dog-friendly hotel rooms, and finish the list? I decide to embrace the situation and take this journey.

I quickly pack a bag. I call my employer requesting extended bereavement time and they accept. Molly and I leave for Alaska. I bring along Molly’s duffel bag and we take off. Upon arrival, we check into a hotel and I set a bowl of food out for Molly. She trots over to it and takes a small bite and walks away. Her eyes are still tired and heavy, but I invite her to lay on the bed and she climbs up. I unpack the duffel bag and find a camera. Again, I was not expecting this. I sift through the pictures and see beautiful portraits of various people as they sip their coffees or laugh with friends. I notice that these are from my sister’s time in Spain and Italy, as evidenced by the languages written on the signs in the background of her images. While the people photographed seem ordinary, the lighting captured the gleam in their eyes, adding depth to each subject. Molly peeked over and rested her head in my lap as I continued to scroll through the remaining images. Molly’s ears perked up and she licked the camera affectionately.

I decide I will take the camera with me as well. I may not have gotten to know my sister particularly well while she was alive, but from what I have gathered since her death, I wish I had tried. Her talent shone through her images. Molly and I explore the various countries over the course of six weeks. The sparkle in her eye seems to have returned and I know now that she will spend every night sleeping with me in my bed for as long as she can. With each passing night, I realize my inheritance, unconventional as it may have been, was far more personal than I’d understood. My sister had entrusted me with the thing she loved most. She may not have known it, but in doing so, she’d offered me a unique insight into her world. Loving Molly was my way of loving my sister now and cherishing the person she was.

With a little less than a week left, I feel fulfilled by the splendor of France and decide I want to visit Spain, my sister’s first destination. I search for the cafés in the pictures and resolve to find the exact spots where my sister’s images were taken from. As I enjoy a beverage from what I believe to be one of the aforementioned cafés, a member of the staff squints at me and Molly from a distance and eventually approaches. He tells me he’s seen this dog before and thought I was someone else. I show him a picture of my sister and explain my relationship to her. He shares with me how she had impacted him and so many others that day. She’d come to the restaurant with her dog, ordered coffee and a pastry and wrote in her notebook. Her laugh was light and infectious. She’d treated everyone with kindness and had attempted to speak the language, which was endearing albeit unsuccessful. She was charming and radiant and frequented this café during her stay. She’d run by with Molly through the rain, touring the town with a beaming smile and a wave to everyone she passed. The man was saddened with the news of her passing, but was happy to feel her presence once more, while viewing the photographs and seeing Molly. He told me to wait a moment and scurried off. He returned with a notebook, my sister’s journal. She had left it behind. My heart warmed at the chance to learn more about her story. Molly nuzzled against me with a knowing look and what I will forever believe was a smile.