If you're a chef, the saying is "if you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen." The political equivalent of that maxim is "in Washington, if you want a friend, get a dog."
In Washington, I was one of the fortunate few. I had a couple of true friends AND I had a dog. Mollie was her name and she was a beautiful Golden Retriever.
On a crisp cool Shenandoah day we visited the breeder to choose a dog to bring home as a holiday surprise. Mollie was romping around the pen with her her fur-ball siblings under her mother's watchful eye.
Mollie broke off abruptly from the others the second I leaned over the rail. In an instant she turned her not inconsiderable charm on me and lobbied for the job of house puppy. I was immediately smitten and although she was putatively a gift for our four children, she and I bonded immediately.
Mollie was not a good puppy. She ate my wife's nylons and my daughter's hair scrunchies. She chewed a hole in our carpet and ripped the back off of our brand new couch. She loved paper of all color and textures - toilet paper if it was all that was available, but preferably something with ink on it - like my expense reports and receipts.
Through this period and afterward as she grew into a more well-behaved pet, her affection and devotion to our family grew stronger each day.
Mollie took our four children on long walks through the woods and streams near our house and would swim in the lake with them at their grandparent's house. True to her retriever lineage, she would play fetch until your arm hurt and was the only dog I ever saw put her face fully under water to retrieve rocks from the bottom of a pond.
When I walked in the front door, she never missed an opportunity to bound up the hallway with an enthusiastic greeting - regardless of whether I was returning from a two-week excursion overseas or a 15 minute errand to the grocery store. Once she had established that I was properly welcomed, she proceeded to follow me around the house. When I sat down, she sat down; when I went to the kitchen to eat, she followed. If I was outside she sat sentry at the door. Since she was not allowed upstairs in our house, she slept at the foot of the stairs and waited for one of us to wake.
After 11 years as the guardian of my family's happiness, Mollie died this week of a ruptured tumor on her spleen.
I write this at my desk - alone for the first time in over a decade. Under my desk, at the spot where my friend would lie quietly at my feet while I worked, the carpet is still depressed.
So am I.
