In loving memory of our dog…
On the first morning without her dog, Anna woke carefully, keeping her feet close together beneath the blanket so she would not disturb the small body that always slept against her ankles. Only when she reached down did she remember, and the empty place in the bed seemed larger than the room around it.
Molly’s bowl still stood beside the refrigerator. Her lead hung from its hook by the door, twisted in the particular way Anna had never quite managed to straighten, and a pale hair clung to the sleeve of the cardigan Anna had worn while holding her for the last time.
Anna picked it off, then stood holding it between her fingers because she could not bear to throw it away.
They had shared fourteen years, long enough for Molly to become part of everything Anna did without thinking. She opened doors slowly because a little nose might be waiting on the other side; she left the last piece of toast on her plate; she checked the floor before moving her chair. Now those small acts of care had nowhere to go.
Molly had died at home the evening before, cradled in Anna’s arms in the chair beside the window. Her favourite blanket lay around her, and Anna’s hand rested beneath her chin, supporting the little head that had grown too heavy for her to lift. Outside, the last light lingered in the garden while the familiar room settled into evening.
Anna had stroked her gently and told her that she was a good girl. She had said it again and again, afraid that if she stopped speaking, Molly might feel alone. When the little body relaxed against her and another breath did not come, Anna kept holding her, her cheek resting against Molly’s soft head.
Afterwards, she could remember every word and still wonder whether she had said enough.
—
Molly woke in warm grass.
For a moment she lay still, listening. Somewhere nearby, water ran over stones, and the air carried so many interesting smells that she lifted her head before she remembered how much lifting her head had hurt.
The pain was gone.
She stood, cautiously at first, then stretched her front paws far out before her, raising her hindquarters in the extravagant bow she had not managed for years. Her legs were steady. Her chest felt easy. She ran a little circle, then a larger one, and stopped with her ears lifted.
Anna should have seen that.
Beyond the meadow rose a bridge made of colours, broad and softly shining, with no river beneath it. Dogs rested along its edges or played in the grass nearby. A large golden dog watched Molly turn towards the place where she had awakened.
“She’ll come,” he said.
Molly looked past him. “Where is she?”
“Look down.”
Beneath the colours, as though through clear water, Molly saw their kitchen. Anna was standing beside the refrigerator with Molly’s bowl in her hands.
Molly’s tail began to wag.
“There she is.”
Anna pressed the bowl against her chest and started crying.
Molly stepped forward at once, but the view remained beneath her paws. She could see Anna and hear her, yet she could not reach the bare ankle she would ordinarily have nudged.
“She needs me.”
“I know,” said the golden dog, settling beside her.
Molly watched Anna put the bowl back on the floor.
“How long?”
“Time moves differently here. One hour here is ten years down there.”
Molly did not understand years very well. She understood mornings, walks, dinner, and the sound of a key turning in the lock.
“Will it be a long wait?”
“Stay with her a while,” he said. “You’ll see.”
Anna’s first year passed in six minutes.
Molly watched her fall asleep on the sofa with the television still murmuring, watched her stop in the supermarket before the shelf of dog treats, watched her kneel beside the bed to retrieve a toy that had rolled beneath it months before.
Sometimes Anna smiled at a memory and then looked almost ashamed of smiling. Sometimes she spoke aloud.
“You would have hated this rain.”
Or, opening a packet of cheese:
“Yes, I know. You’d have heard that from upstairs.”
Molly heard it now, too, and lifted her ears.
There were things Anna did not say to anyone. On the difficult nights she went over the last weeks, wondering whether she should have noticed sooner, whether anything more could have helped, whether Molly had known how much she was loved.
Watching from the bridge, Molly remembered Anna carrying her outside when the steps became too difficult. She remembered clean blankets, water brought close to her bed, and a hand resting lightly on her ribs through the night.
Most clearly, she remembered those last moments in Anna’s arms: the warmth of the blanket, the familiar scent of her cardigan, and the voice she had known all her life, accompanying her as she drifted into sleep.
Whenever Anna whispered, “I’m sorry,” Molly leaned towards her.
She had never needed an apology. She had needed Anna, and Anna had stayed.
After twelve minutes, another dog appeared in the kitchen.
He was thin and awkward, with one ear that stood up and another that fell sideways. Anna sat on the floor some distance from him, letting him decide whether to approach.
Molly watched closely.
The dog sniffed the cupboards, drank some water, then came to Anna and placed his head against her knee. She touched him with a hesitant hand.
Later, Molly heard her speaking to the photograph on the mantelpiece.
“He needed somewhere to go,” Anna said. “I hope you wouldn’t mind.”
Molly wagged her tail. There was room beside the refrigerator for his bowl, and Anna had been eating too many dinners alone.
The years moved through the colors beneath the bridge. The new dog learned the footpaths Molly had known, discovered the sunny patch by the back door, and became an expert at recognizing the cheese packet. Anna laughed more often, although on certain evenings she still took Molly’s old collar from a drawer and held it for a while.
When the crooked-eared dog eventually arrived in the meadow, Molly went to meet him.
“She told me about you,” he said.
They touched noses, then walked back together to watch over her.
Half an hour had passed on the Rainbow.
Below, thirty years had changed Anna’s face and silvered her hair. She had moved into a smaller house, taking the photograph and the old lead with her. There had been friends, journeys, ordinary disappointments, and mornings when sunlight through the curtains made her glad to get up.
Molly watched all of it. Between watching, she ran through the meadow with her companion, splashed through shallow streams, and slept in grass that was always warm.
She still woke at the sound of Anna’s voice.
As Anna grew older, her walks became slower. Sometimes she rested on a bench and looked at the empty stretch of path beside her, remembering a small dog who had always wanted to know what was just around the next bend.
One afternoon, she dreamed of Molly running towards her across a field. She woke with her hand extended over the edge of the chair and, for the first time in many years, the memory of her dog brought no image of their final evening with it.
Only Molly, running.
It was not yet evening in the meadow when Anna came.
Molly noticed the change before she saw her. She rose from the grass, her nose lifted, recognizing something so familiar that her whole body began to move with the wagging of her tail.
At the far end of the bridge stood Anna.
For a moment she looked bewildered. Then she saw the little dog racing towards her, ears flying, paws scarcely touching the colors.
“Molly?”
Anna knelt, and Molly arrived in a tumble of warmth and movement, pressing against her chest, licking her face, trying to fit fourteen years of greetings into one.
Anna buried her hands in the familiar fur.
“Oh, my darling. I missed you.”
Behind Molly, the crooked-eared dog came running too, and Anna laughed through her tears as she gathered them both close.
When she could finally look up, she glanced across the meadow.
“Have you been waiting all this time?”
Molly leaned against her hand. Less than an afternoon had passed, and now Anna was here, smelling like herself, with both dogs beside her and nowhere she needed to hurry.
Anna stood. Molly moved at once to her usual place by her ankle, while her companion bounded ahead and looked back to see whether they were coming.
Together they crossed the meadow.
After a little while, Molly ran forward too. There was a bend in the path ahead, and she wanted to see what waited beyond it; but first she turned, checking for Anna as she had always done.
Anna was coming.
Molly waited for her.