“MOLLY”

“To be frivolously minded brings death, but to be morally minded is life and peace.” (Romans 8:6)

She was 40 pounds of playful puppy, and that was when she was but a wee one…a slippery, slimy, slobbery, Saint Bernard. Molly was our pet, the neighborhood bundle of puppy love. There were nine of us kids in the Rhoades clan, all of which thought Molly was the ultimate “man’s best friend.”

We taught her to wrestle, literally. I mean moves and all. She was charming and chubby. Well fed and well bred. She made coming home a whole new adventure.

The concrete path to our garage became known as the driveway of doom. The jingle of her dog tags was a friendly reminder to take cover or get run over. If I was up for it (or not), she would attack, usually at my feet. Down I would go and then it was off for a five minute grappling session with “Beethoven.” Slobber went everywhere. There was licking and grabbing, pushing and pulling. When I was totally exhausted, she still wanted more. She was as playful as she was powerful. The way to end it all was to escape into the house for a good bath.

But, Molly had a problem. You see, she just wouldn’t grow up. We paid for training. We brought in friends that were experts in the field of obedience, but she just never seemed to catch on. At first (as with most of the dogs in our suburban section of town), we let her roam free with her friends (a couple of German shepherds and a beagle) . They were buds. But problems loomed “large” on the horizon. As she grew older, the damage increased. It went from a few flowerbeds crushed under the weight of a man-sized scratcher, to several garbage cans torn hither and yon. The neighbors were in a dither, and our dog would have to go “on the leash.”

We started with a corkscrew-type restraint that twisted into the ground. It didn’t last long. The next day, when I pulled into the driveway arriving home from church, Molly came running. The chain and corkscrew were dangling from her neck like a 70’s peace sign. Up she went, and down I dropped. It was no time to play. I was left with spit and muddy paw prints on my Sunday best.

Dad began to suggest that we get rid of Molly. Perish the thought! She was a Rhoades, and we would see this thing through. All she needed was a new set of boundaries. We bought her a bigger doghouse, ran a huge eye hook through the frame and hooked it to her leather necklace. Our monster, “Molly,” was now safe. Or so we thought.

One crisp fall morning in my junior year of high school, I had to ride the cheese bus (my 68 Pontiac was in for repairs). As we were leaving my stop, the kids started craning through the crowd to look out the windows. With my eyes still straining to free themselves from sleepers, I looked, too. Here came Molly, dragging a 120 pound dog house down Rural Route Number Two. It was hilarious. The bus driver was laughing so hard she had to stop old “Cheeser.” Molly was going to school with a backpack the size of Rhode Island.

My bus driver gave me a reprieve. I drug our charming chubby friend and her domicile back into our yard and hoped she would understand. I told her to stay, and she did--long enough for me to get around the corner and our bus driver to wipe the tears of laughter from her eyes.

Within a few days, as I arrived home from soccer practice, I extricated myself from my ugly tan Pontiac, prepared myself for a pounding, and headed for the big oak tree that was now Molly’s margin maker. It seemed like we just had to keep going to something bigger and stronger to keep her from blowing it.

I didn’t hear any jingling. I couldn’t see those big dirty paws prepared to seal my doom to dirtdom. I was sure she had run off again. I walked into the house, only to be met by the tearful eyes of my younger siblings. Mom said sorrowfully, “Molly’s gone. She broke her chain and met her fate at the hands of the garbage truck. Dad had to take her to be ‘put to sleep.’” I sat down and cried, and went through the list of “if only’s,” trying to diminish the disappointment.

You see, Molly had the same problem many people have. They seem charming enough. They mean no harm, and surely, if given the chance, they would show you their playful side. If we could only keep them from drinking, or get them to stay off drugs. Convince them to keep their paws out of someone else’s stuff. Sometimes they make us laugh, like the day the big brown and white slobber machine pulled her townhouse down the highway. But eventually, they always seem to make us cry.

We try bigger and stronger boundaries, anything to keep them safe. Unfortunately, boundary breakers are sure they can handle it. Life becomes a spiraling spin into the world of “living on the ragged edge.” Eventually, they take a trip to where the garbage lies, and we get the bad news: “they have reached the end of their rope.”

If you find yourself, like Molly, stretching the limits all in the name of harmless hoopla, you may be headed for a tragedy. It will leave Mom, Dad, and the whole family sitting in tears. The fate of Molly awaits those who won’t exercise restraint. For the sake of us all, stop straying. We love it when you leave mud on our Sunday best