Molly the dog was put to sleep this Monday morning. I've never really known anyone who lost a close pet, let alone someone I've worked for and lodged with, like I do with Russell, Jannette, James and Sophie. I felt a bit like Nick Guest from The Line of Beauty at parts throughout the day. Not the gayness so much as the boy living in a privilaged family's world and awkwardly orbiting around the cusp of one of their small yet private tragedies. I felt out of place, and then guilty for harboring such a selfish concern in the midst of the suffering from which I felt the alienation. So I made them some tea.
Molly was very old. As long as I'd known her, which was for about two months, she'd been blind, deaf, and barely supporting herself on four very rickety legs. And she slept a lot. But she seemed entirely content and befriended me quickly when one night, early on in my stay, I slipped her some chicken from my chair at the dining room table. In fact, most of my memories with her involve secret people-food feedings of one kind or another. Eventually all it would take was for me to open the fridge door to summon the slow but steady click-clack click-clack of her paws along the smooth white flooring.
What a lonely thing it will be to open the fridge door tomorow.
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