Walks and Walkers

For the first six years of her life, we were Molly's walkers. During the day, Bruce would go to work and I would, in between my desperate attempts to put together a sole practice in environmental law, take Molly for hour-long walks twice a day. 

One of her favourites (and mine, but for different reasons) was the walk to the bank. It was about twenty minutes each way from our condo at Jarvis and Maitland to the bank branch just west of Yonge and Bloor. 

Being in the bank was even more fun than walking there. The line ups were always long, so I brought toys to keep the dog and the people waiting amused. There was the usual stream of admirers during these visits, none more admiring than the pleasant teller who manned the Business Service counter. She always made quite a fuss about the dog.

No surprise then that Molly hated to leave. After I'd done my banking, we'd be on the sidewalk headed for the corner and Molly would put on the brakes. The first time she did this, she couldn't have weighed more than four pounds, but I was caught completely by surprise and she almost pulled the leash out of my hand. She definitely stopped me in my tracks. 

I turned around and looked at my tiny, stubborn, resolute, cute little dog planted firmly on the sidewalk, determined to return to the fan-filled haven of TD Canada Trust. There was a short stand off. Then I got that familiar feeling of being watched. Two women out for a cigarette in front of 2 Bloor West had seen the whole thing and were laughing heartily.

Pleased, annoyed, embarrassed and defeated, but ultimately still the one in charge, I picked Molly up and carried her to the corner.

On the weekends, we had many dog-walk adventures, including a fabled eleven kilometre round-trip hike to the Upper Canada Brewery location on Atlantic Avenue. Bruce, Molly and I walked all the way there from Jarvis and Wellesley. Along the way, we encountered another instant fan/friend who had just lost her own little JRT. I hazarded to ask how old the dog had been and what had caused it to die. 

"Thirteen," said the young woman with a really sad look, "Cancer." 

When we got to the brewery, Molly connected with a nice little kid who played frisbee fetch with her for the whole time we stayed. Then we walked all the way back. She slept pretty soundly that night.

When the dog was in her prime we took long walks to Riverdale Park and down into the Don River Valley, or west along Bloor into the University of Toronto campus and Queen's Park. We tried to avoid places where there were lots of crowds on the sidewalks because Molly just disappeared among the moving feet and I was always a little worried someone would inadvertently kick her. If we walked her along the Danforth where lots of families were out Molly would inevitably trigger a "look at the cute doggie" commotion. 

As she grew, we put Molly into a variety of restraints, starting with a cat collar (dog collars were too big) and then a cat harness when we figured out that Molly's throat was not well suited to a collar. We got her a proper woven nylon leash that was hers for her whole long life and a nylon harness that assisted emergency extractions when Molly was mobbed by big dogs.

We liked going on walks with the dog, but opportunities for exercise were also right next to our condo building - until they started locking the gate - in the playing field at Jarvis Collegiate. There we would throw balls and frisbees and sticks for the dog.

For the short time that we could find them, we bought her balls to play with that were probably three times her height. They weren't beach balls exactly, but still pretty light. They made her crazy. She'd chase them around the playing field, bat them with her head, launch them into the air and bark like a maniac. 

The playing field was overlooked by two high rise apartment buildings - one on Maitland and one on Homewood. I learned from one of the residents in the Homewood building that Molly was famous and people would watch her from their balconies while she played with the giant balls. Of course, good things can't last. Big dogs would come along and try to play with Molly's big ball. One bite, and the ball game was over.

When I started my job at the City of Toronto, Molly had just turned six and it was no longer an option for me to walk her during the day. 

Over the next decade, Molly had three walkers. The first was a neighbour in the condo building we lived in. That arrangement lasted about a year. The second was another neighbour in the building and she helped us for a couple of years, but then she went out west and we were stuck again.

A friend told us about someone she knew who walked dogs and who had also once lived in the building. His name was Brent. We gave him a call. He agreed to walk Molly - and he remained her walker from that point to her very last day on the planet.

Everyone should have someone like Brent in their lives. In all the years he walked Molly for us, he never, ever called to say he couldn't make it. 

Brent loved Molly and Molly loved Brent. We boarded Molly with Brent when we travelled. She would stay at his place, sleep in his bed (displacing Brent's own dog, a sweet-natured lab mix named Sage), boss all the other dogs around who were staying with Brent and more or less run the place. 

To spare her the disruption when we moved from our penthouse condo to our townhouse condo we boarded Molly with Brent. 

When Brent brought Molly to our new place, we welcomed him in, showed him the new place and chatted for a while in the front hallway. When he turned to go, Molly headed out the door with him. 

Molly wasn't just our pet. She was our muse. Read more here.