Ol' MuttDoggle

Many moons ago, I left my little Kippy with my parents when I moved to Colorado, because the apartment I was going to share with my friend didn’t take pets and I didn’t want to put her through the stress of boarding until I got a place of my own.

A few months later, I had a new apartment that would accept pets. I traveled back to Wyoming to get my dog, and…

My parents had a new dog named Kippy.

I didn’t have the heart to take her from a home where the retired couple was home with her all day, while I would be at work for hours. A home, truthfully, where she was loved and adored and pampered in a way I simply didn’t have the time or money for.

She was happy. They were happy. I would have been a monster if I even attempted to take her away. So I kissed my baby goodbye and left her in the best home—theirs.

That may have been my first REAL lesson in “If you love someone, let them go”—or stay, as the case may be.

Kippy was a joy, and it devastated all of us when she passed at the age of twelve after having a hysterectomy to remove a tumor.

“We will NEVER get another dog!” was the cry of the day in the Shablo household.

Over the years, they came up with many reasons not to get another dog. But as Dad began to have symptoms of dementia, we children began discussing the many advantages of the folks having a pet.

Lo and behold, there was finally a bit of desire in both my parents. But Dad wanted a puppy, and Mom wanted an adult she wouldn’t have to toilet train.

My brother and sister-in-law listened to it all from afar, and took matters into their own hands. On Father’s Day, 2018, they showed up with a little Mother’s/Father’s Day gift.

(They had already fallen in love with the tiny pup, and had decided to keep her themselves if Mom and Dad insisted they didn’t want a dog. I believe their hopes for both outcomes were slightly skewed in favor of keeping her.)

The exchange went something like this:

Dad—You got a new puppy?

Frank—She’s for you. Happy Father’s Day. Oh, and Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Dad—Mine?

Frank—Yours.

Dad—Gimme!

Mom—Well... she’s sure cute. And so sweet!

Potty training would commence.

Any hope my brother and sister-in-law secretly (or not so secretly) harbored about taking Molly back were dashed in an instant. Molly was home.

This exchange was conveyed to me by everyone there on that day—many, many times. Dad was especially prone to repeating himself in the early days of his illness.

I missed Molly’s arrival. I was undergoing an upper endoscopy at the time. Blah.

I met Molly at the La Quinta Inn in Trinidad, Colorado, where I met my parents for a family reunion after taking a trip to my Colorado home for tests and doctor appointments and a comic convention. (Because I am me, I insisted on some fun after all the not fun stuff I got put through on that trip.)

It was love at first sight. With Molly, it often is.

Dad was well-known as the person who could come up with the craziest nicknames ever. We all have one, but I am NOT telling mine, so don't ask. Suffice to say, it is silly.

Dad called Molly "Poopster". She would come running to him, happiness wrapped in fur, whenever he called her that. Her tail would wag a mile a minute, and her whole body would wiggle in anticipation of fun with her Daddy.

No one else gets as much as a sideways glance from her when called by that name. It was for Dad, and only Dad.

Here's the part where I confess that I have inherited my father's penchant for nicknames. I'm the goofball who dubbed her "MuttDoggle". I'll say this for her, though. She has too much dignity to respond to it, unless we're dancing and playing. Otherwise, she lifts her nose in the air and looks the other direction until I call her by her name.

Molly is a Deer Head Chihuahua, so called because of their resemblance to does.

Chihuahuas, as a breed, are not known for being friendly and sociable dogs, so I can only conclude that Molly was a Golden Retriever in a past life. She loves people; it is such a rare occurrence for her to express fear or dislike for a person that when she does, we are on instant alert.

Molly met and endeared herself to many of our extended family members. She was a big hit—no one fails to ask about her when they call or text. My granddaughters, to be honest, ask about Molly before they ask about me!

We all returned to Wyoming after the family reunion and Molly settled in like a champ—except for her toilet training. Dad would scold anyone who scolded his “Poopster”, so it was a chore. In fact, she didn’t really catch on until she was spayed at age six months and I carried her in and out every couple of hours to toilet. Then she was like, “Oh! This is what you wanted me to do? I get it, I get it!”

This is not to suggest that Molly is anything but brilliant. She’s so smart, it’s scary. You can’t fool her—she remembers the way to the vet’s and the groomer’s places, and intuits when we are planning a trip to either. She knows if we're planning to leave the house. If I help Mom into her shoes, Molly goes to hide. Bye-bye is not her thing.

I have written about Molly before, and people often assume that she’s my dog, but as I said, she was a gift to my parents. However, since puppyhood, I have been her person. She bosses me around, sleeps with me and keeps me moving, too. When I leave for a few days, she mopes.

She has one job—to love my parents and keep them amused and active. She’s done well at that. Until his final breath, Molly was with Dad, letting him know he was loved by his four-legged buddy. “She’s my best friend,” Dad would say. “Right, Poopster, Loopster?" Even when he reached the point when he was no longer communicating with us, he found the strength to pet his little girl.

After he passed, Molly was despondent. She mourned him deeply. Anyone who might ever dare to suggest that our girl is “just a dog” had better guard their teeth. She’s so much more than “just”.

Her first duty of each day is to find Mom and greet her. “Pet me!” she commands, and Mom does her best with hands that no longer do precisely as she instructs them. “More!” It’s good for Mom to work those fingers, and Molly doesn’t let her get away with being lazy about it.

You’ve now been treated to the “Working Girl, Molly” and it is time to tell you about “Boss Molly”.

You see, all employees have a boss, but I am not that boss. I am the low man on the totem pole and everyone, including the dog, tells me what to do.

Molly has a bark or growl for every occasion. I don’t think I have ever been more familiar with another pet. She looks around a corner and chuffs, and I know she wants to go outside. She growls low in her throat, and I know she wants her water refreshed. Certain looks and body language let me know she’s ready for a treat.

Of course, as a boss, she’s very easy to get along with and the compensation in cuddles and kisses is more than anyone could reasonably expect, so I am not complaining. Her companionship with Mom makes everything worthwhile.

I truly believe that this little girl was a gift to my parents in so many more ways than my brother and sister-in-law could have expected. She gave Dad so much joy, and kept him active at a time when he would have been content to sit and do nothing at all. She continues to keep Mom moving around as well as she’s able to. She’s got a huge personality and keeps Mom engaged and laughing daily.

Molly MuttDoggle: "EmPAWyee" of the Day, Week, Month, Year and Eternity.

If you'd like to know more about me, look here:

If you enjoyed this story, I hope you'll consider clicking the heart button below to let me know.

It would delight me to no end if you'd also hit the "Subscribe" button!

Tips are greatly appreciated, but never mandatory.