“Which one do you like, Andy?”

My mom had called me into the den where she sat with my dad, browsing through a folder of a dozen puppy photos that a springer spaniel breeder had emailed them.

It was summer 2002, and I was 14. We’d recently had to put down our beloved springer spaniel, Tori. She’d developed nose cancer later in life and had increasing problems breathing.

“This isn’t a replacement for Tori,” my mom explained to my sister and me. “We have so much life & love we can give to a dog. They’ll never hurt or want for anything.”

We drove out from our home in Idaho to Washington, to some city I can’t remember. We arrived at a small house in a rural area and went into the backyard to see the puppies. There were 8-10 tiny pups of white, brown and black running around, chewing on anything they could, inhaling food out of a purple bin, and just…being puppies.

All I remember about the drive home was trying to get this squirmy ball of dog to sit still on my lap— a futile effort. She’d lick my face, gnaw on my fingertips and wag her tail until I thought she’d burn a hole through my shorts. We had a long drive back home.

But she didn’t care. All she knew was an instant love that would last for the next twelve years.

As she grew up, I imagine her life wasn’t any more extraordinary or different than any other family dog’s life. She chewed up things she wasn’t supposed to, ate fresh baked pies & bread off the counter, barked at anyone who rang the doorbell, and had bouts of explosive diaherra in the house (typically after eating said pies).

But she didn’t care.

She knew was there was no amount of destroyed household objects, ruined desserts, or carpet cleaning bills that would change the result — I’d always end up hugging her tightly & throwing her rubber Kong toys in the backyard.

Sometimes, I thought we’d played too hard. After 30 minutes of pure running, I told her “Molly, we have to rest…you’re going to wear yourself out!”

But again, she didn’t care.

She’d run after every throw, toss, and lob at breakneck speed, tearing up the grass in my parent’s yard and gleefully returning the slobbery toy to my lap. We both loved it.

Leaving for college at 18 meant the end of seeing her every day. Every holiday & summer break, I’d race into the house and collapse to my knees when I saw her, always saying “I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long — I missed you.”

But she didn’t care that I’d been gone for months - all she knew was that I was home. She’d whine in happiness, wag her stubby tail, and run off to bring me her Kong to throw.

My first design job after school didn’t work out after 4 months, and I moved home feeling defeated. Even though I was depressed & unemployed, she didn’t care. She’d still greet me every day with the same smile and wag of her short tail.

Like everyone & everything, she grew older. Naps became longer, greetings became less exciting, tossing Kongs slowed to just a few lobs because her hips were getting so stiff.

But she didn’t care that she was almost 12 years old. In her head, she was still a puppy. I always imagined her saying to me:

“Just one more throw, Andy — after that, I promise I’ll be done.”

Before I moved to LA in 2011, I spent time with her in the backyard saying goodbye again. I snapped a photo of her smiling at me, sitting in the sun on a warm June morning. I changed my caller ID for Home to that picture, because Molly was home. I missed her dearly and asked how she was doing every time I called my parents.

This weekend, I got the call I’d always feared. My phone lit up with Molly’s picture and I picked up. My mom told me she wasn’t doing so well — listless, not eating, in obvious pain, and a few other alarming issues that had grown over time. My parents had spent thousands keeping her as healthy as they could for years, but knew we couldn’t be selfish anymore.

I was on the next flight to Boise. I knew this would be the last time I’d see her.

I stayed by her side for most of the weekend. She napped a lot, twitching in her sleep with her funny dog dreams just like when she was a puppy. She’d lick the salty tears from my hands and give her torn up stuffed fox toy a few gnaws.

I whispered in her ear to thank her for all her years of happiness & unflinchingly rigid support — away for 4 minutes or 4 months, employed, unemployed, happy, sad, hurting or healthy…she didn’t care.

We put her down this Tuesday morning.

I’ve never cried so hard in my life. As I spooned with her on the floor of the vet’s office, she looked up at me one last time, put her head down and peacefully went to sleep.

I cried & held her until there was no more warmth left in her body.

So Molly — thank you for so much.

Thank you for twelve years of camping, hiking, sitting by the fire on Christmas mornings, slobbery Kongs and endless love.

But most of all, thank you for not caring.