This is the whole text for The Molly Chronicles. The pictures are missing. This post is for anyone who wants to write a review for me. So that I can find the review, either add it as a comment here. or Post it on "Hanging Out" under "Get Together By Phone." Or e-mail it to me. Anywhere else, and I'll probably never find it.

BIG THANKS to you.

Elaine

The Molly Chronicles

~~Elaine~~ ~~Glimme~~ Molly

(A Picture of Me)

Photo by Sue Hirschman

Human’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All references to baseball players, managers and coaches are fictitious. Conversations on Barbara Sher's website actually happened, and Eileen really did write a poem for Molly. Any similarity between other characters in this book and real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanic or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and review. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to all my friends, canine and human, who helped me create The Molly Chronicles. Thank you to Tom and Elaine, my humans who provided liver snacks and rib bones.

Thanks to all my dog friends for their help and encouragement, Astro, Buddy, Harley, Hildy, Pugsly, and Ginger. Thanks to Shadow (who can hold two tennis balls in his mouth at the same time), and to Eileen’s friend, the Canadian Timber Wolf. and Daryl the Sheep.

Thanks to John Hjelle, Christine Nadeau, and Mike Farabee, who all love baseball, for their technical advice.

Thanks to my writing buddies, Pat, Margaret, Carolyn, Terry, Linda, Larry, Nancy, Stella, June, Eddie, Patty, and Carmen, for encouragement and for proofreading. (It's very hard to type accurately with your nose.)

Thanks to my good friends on the Internet for your kind words about dogs in general, and me in particular. So many Internet friends! From “Hanging Out,” there’s Barbara Sher, who is a good friend and who talks to humans and dogs like me even though she’s famous and we’re not, and Eileen, Karla, and Mary Ann, who love animals, and Astrid, who offered me home cooked meals even though she lives on another continent. (We couldn't figure out the shipping details.)

Thank you to my other Internet friends, Lynx, Kashtanka, ST, Square Peg (in a round world), and Pattyn.

I couldn’t have done it without you all.

A special thank you to the photographers who allowed their work to be shared. Please see Appendix I for individual attributions.

Finally, thank you to YOU, my readers, for reading The Molly Chronicles. It’s no fun writing unless someone is going to read what you wrote.

Licks and tail wags to you all,

Molly

Introduction

Photo by Sue Hirschman

They call me Molly.

Welcome to my world. My human, I regret to say, spends too much time watching television and playing computer games, and not enough time actually accomplishing anything, so of course it’s up to me, the canine, to write the posts for her blog. My work has been well received by dogs and people alike, and I decided to incorporate my best posts into this book, The Molly Chronicles.

I hope you enjoy reading about life from the perspective of an intelligent collie with an above-average work ethic (me).

Love,

Molly

My First Post

My human is freaking out. It seems that her novel got all messed up. So she's barking at the computer and mumbling about formatting, and fonts, and #!&#!!^%$#$ computers. Typing doesn't look so hard. I think I’ll have a go at it.

A Picture of My Human Playing Computer Games

(When She Should Be Working)

Shucks, this is easy. I don’t know why she gets so mad at the computer. And she can even type with fingers. I have to use a paw or my nose........ OH!!!!!.........

Typing with a nose has its advantages. See, my human likes to eat while she types. So “k” and “i” taste like cheese. Yum!

k i k i k i k i k i

Barking Up My Family Tree

photo top right dog by Arbutus Photography

I check Out Ancestry.com

People have asked what breed of dog I am. (Dogs don’t care about that sort of thing. We just want to know what you smell like.) I have German Shepherd type markings but my colors are more vibrant, my hind legs don’t slope, and, of course, I’m about half the size of a German Shepherd.
Some kids have asked if I’m a wolf because of the markings on my face, but I’m not even big enough to be a wolf-dog. I do like to pounce like a coyote when I’m in a field with mice or voles or other scitterish critters.
But put me around sheep or goats—I'll collect them into a circle, and crouch, and bark, ~~and nip~~ until they do what I tell them. So my human thinks I'm some kind of herding dog. Oh, and I'm probably a mutt. (I would never nip.)

Picture of Stubborn Sheep

(All Sheep Are Stubborn.)

Photo by Alexandre Dulaunoy

Comment to Molly from Daryl the Sheep

Do we LOOK stubborn????

Here's a picture of my family and me posing for your book. (I'm the handsome one with the horns.) Being well-mannered sheep, we came immediately to help you out. I just hope you mention us in your acknowledgements.

Connemara sheep are famous for standing in the middle of the humans' roads and blocking traffic, so MAYBE you could call some of them stubborn, but most sheep are very polite.

Speaking of rude behavior, instead of nicely asking us sheep to move, do you know what those herding dogs do? They bark, and bully, and nip our heels! Humph! They're baaaaaad dogs. I've enclosed a photo.

Picture of Lamb Traumatized by Excessive Heel Nipping

Sincerely yours,

Daryl the Sheep

Comment to Daryl the Sheep from Molly

I would never do that!

Thank you for the very good photos, which I am using in my book.

Regards,

Molly

My human took me for a ride in the car, which is an excellent thing to do. Then, in a cruel and unexpected twist of fate, we ended up at the vet's office. He took my temperature. (It was very rude; don't ask.) Then he checked my ears, listened to my heart, and poked me. Finally, he took a sample of my blood and sent some of it out for DNA analysis.

This is hard to admit—I was afraid of what I’d find. What if my relatives were all chicken thieves, or garbage scroungers, or just plain dumb!
You see, when I was a young dog, I got thrown in jail. Through no fault of my own, I landed in the pound when I was about ten months old, and that’s where my person found me and rescued me. My recollections from before then are sketchy.

Well, guess what? It turns out I come from noble stock. I’m part Border Collie! Do you have any idea how smart, and industrious and just plain wonderful Border Collies are? Most Border Collies are black and white, but they can also be tri-color like me. And Border Collies are bred for their work with sheep, not for their looks. I'm also part Australian Shepherd, (another noble breed) and part several other types of collie, and part something else.

Border Collie! Australian Shepherd! I decided to research my genealogy on Ancestry.com (which is almost as informative as sniffing.)

Photo by Dave Peake

I'm related to Old Hemp and Wiston Cap, who were famous and won many sheep-herding championships. See, they weren't rowdy and noisy, and they didn't nip heels like the other sheep dogs. They commanded the sheep’s respect with their cool demeanor. And with their eyes—they could control the sheep with their eyes.

I know what that means. When I want something and my human doesn’t feel like getting it for me, I give her the eye.

Sometimes it works.

Border Collie Demonstrating Above-Average Work Ethic

Photo by Arbutus Photography

And in between championships, they had to keep track of the sheep, and the country around the English/Scottish border is

RUGGED. If you don't believe me, just read The Hound of the Baskervilles.

I'm also related to Mirk, one of Wiston Cap's puppies. He was entered into a sheepherding trial, and it was so hard that none of the other dogs could finish. See, the gate to the pen was really narrow, and if you’ve ever worked with sheep—well—they don’t cooperate all that well. So Mirk got the sheep up there—fifty sheep—and he looked them square in the eye, and—I’m not kidding—they all lined up single file and just walked into the pen. It’s on the Internet. You can look it up if you want.

Remember the movie Babe? Where the pig gets the sheep to line up and go into the pen? They got the idea from Mirk.

So that’s the Border Collie side of my family. I’m going to research the Australian Shepherd side next. My human friends Bob and Joe say that I look more like an Australian Shepherd.

Molly, signing off.

Jury Duty

Jury Duty

My human and I got summoned for jury duty, and we got assigned to a case. The judge, who is a wise and kind person, asked us not to talk about the trial until it’s over and I have to respect her wishes. After the trial I plan to blog about my impression of the human’s justice system. I can tell you this much, however. They don’t hand out Beggin’ Strips or rawhide chews in the courtroom, and you aren’t allowed to pee on the metal detectors.

Molly, signing off.

Comments about Jury Duty from Barbara Sher's website, "Hanging Out"
Molly
My Border Collie work ethic helps me complete the goals I set for myself.
The goal I’m currently working on is blogging about my jury duty experience. Each day, beginning with September 20, 2012, I’m reporting on the happenings in the courtroom of Judge Katherine McConnell. (Just typing the words gives me the shivers.) For a practice goal, perhaps I’ll create a coffee-table book compiling the best stories in The Molly Chronicles.
I’m really excited about my posts on the jury duty experience. They may be my best work yet. Here’s an excerpt from today’s post:
“The Molly Chronicles—Jury Duty
We Enter the Courtroom
…I hoped and prayed that they would choose my human and me to serve on the jury. My human, I regret to say, was hoping to get out of it.”

Elaine
Molly, my overachieving Border Collie, seems to have posted here again. Her comments on jury duty and on other things do not necessary reflect the opinions of her human/owner.

Eileen

I applaud you for that ethic, Molly. And as for the crack someone (who shall be nameless) made about your opinions not reflecting, etc., well Molly, they ought to! Because your opinions are solid gold, imho. So just keep on wagging, girl, and never mind some nay-sayer (again, whose name I won’t mention).

Glad to see YOU were ready to do your duty.

Jury Duty – Day 1

My human and I have been summoned for jury duty. I’m pleased and humbled–and just thrilled with the prospect of serving. As you know Border Collies have a great sense of duty.

We appeared Wednesday morning, and had to pass through a metal detector. The sheriffs at the door normally wouldn’t let a dog into the building, but they could tell at once what a noble animal I am; so they let me in, no questions asked.

I must state for the record that I understand their “no dogs in the courthouse” policy. Can you imagine the trouble Astro would cause if he were ever allowed inside? He’d chew up everything from the attorney’s briefs to the briefs that the defendants were wearing. And he’d probably bark and slobber all over everyone’s faces.

As for Buddy, he’d just lift his leg and pee on the judge.

They picked sixty of us at random as a pool of prospective jurors, and we were sent upstairs to Courtroom Two. I hoped and prayed that they would choose my human and me to serve on the jury. My human, I regret to say, was hoping to get out of it.

The courtroom was modeled after the set in the Perry Mason shows, except that our courtroom had more comfortable seats. Unfortunately I, being a dog, had to lie on the floor.

I told the judge that I could save everyone a whole lot of trouble. I could tell her if the defendant was guilty or innocent by smelling his butt. The judge said that’s not the way our court system works. Humans are sometimes very stubborn and backward.

Anyway, they began the jury selection process called “voire dire” which is a fancy shmancy term for all talk and no liver snacks. They interviewed the first eighteen prospective jurors. The judge politely thanked and excused some of them and she said that being excused was no reflection on their character. Still, I’d be devastated if they excused me.

My human was the fifty second person interviewed. She forgot to mention that she was a writer. Fortunately I was there, and told everyone that she wrote Temporary Address, that I'm her publicist, and that e-books are available through Amazon, B&N, and Lulu.com, and paperbacks are available through Lulu.

The judge said she’d read it after the trial. She is a very honest person, and wouldn’t lie about a thing like that, even to be polite.

Jury Duty ‒ Day 2

We were chosen to serve on the jury. My doggie heart beat with the highest sense of duty and pride as I raised my right paw and barked my promise to uphold the law and to render a fair and impartial verdict.

Besides the judge and us jurors, the district attorney, the defense attorney, and the defendant were also there.

The district attorney’s name was Lester, but I will always think of him as peanut breath. He’d be good at playing “fetch" because he was always fetching things which he wanted to call into evidence.

The defense lawyer, Jerome, was a little old man with a runny nose. He wore a bow tie and suspenders, and he smelled like Ben Gay. I’ll bet he feeds dogs under the table, which is a very good thing to do.

Also, there were bailiffs, the court clerk, and a court stenographer, who all petted me and scratched behind my ears, but they don't really enter into the story.

The guy on trial, Rudy, looked like he’d eaten a doggy worming pill (yuck). I wasn’t allowed to smell his butt.

Rudy the Car Borrower

The D. A. said that Rudy had gone for a ride in a car. I can understand that. Going for a ride is one of my favorite things to do. Unfortunately, Rudy had gone for a ride in someone else’s car. In fact, Rudy had gone for rides in several other people’s cars.

Jerome, Rudy’s lawyer, explained that it was all a misunderstanding. Rudy had thought he was borrowing the cars, and not stealing them.

I could understand that too. I have had several similar misunderstandings. There was the ham that my human had left on the counter which I could have sworn she meant for me. And there were several garbage incidents, which were not my fault.

I left the courthouse eager for the next day when Lester would begin calling witnesses, and I was drooling just thinking about the ham bone.

Molly, signing off with a patriotic salute.

Jury Duty ‒ Day 3

The District attorney called his first witness, George, who had wanted to go for a ride in his car. I think George needed to buy treats for his dog, but he didn’t actually say that. Anyway, his car was gone—stolen!!!!!

Later, a police officer found the car with Rudy in it. He asked George if he had given Rudy permission to take his car, and George said, “no.” The plot thickens—Rudy had special keys for breaking into other people’s cars.

Then Alice McGuilecudy took the stand. She had been getting ready to go to work (which is a waste of time, if you ask me), and her car wasn’t there. Another officer had found Rudy taking a back pack and a car stereo out of Alice’s car.

Five more witnesses testified that their cars were stolen, and that they hadn’t told Rudy it was okay to take them. And several policemen testified that they found Rudy driving these cars with crazy keys in his pocket. These keys could start any car. It looked bad for good old Rudy! What would happen next? Jury duty was more exciting that I had expected.

Then Jerome, the defense lawyer called Rudy to the stand. Rudy explained that it was all a mistake. Rudy had thought he was borrowing the cars from his friends. And he only took the stereo out of Alice’s car because it was dirty, and he wanted to polish it.

The next witness was Officer Kevin Hansen. From the moment he entered the courtroom, my keen nose detected an extraordinary air about him, a sense of something noble, heroic even. I pricked up my ears in anticipation waiting for him to be sworn in.

Be still, my doggie heart! I hadn’t dared to hope as much, but yes, the man was a dog handler! He worked with the K-9 Corp, an elite group of animals sworn to protect and to serve us.

I look up to these dogs. They are my heroes.

You won’t believe what happened next. Just wait till you read tomorrow’s report.

Mollie, AFK (away from keyboard).

Jury Duty ‒ Day 4

Yesterday was a thrilling day for me actually hearing from Officer Hansen, who trains dogs in the K-9 Corp.

Today Officer Hansen took the witness stand again and, being a dog, I was very interested in his testimony. He works with Caesar, a five-year-old German Shepherd, and it was Caesar who had apprehended the suspect Rudy.

I couldn’t help it. I was whining and straining at the leash as Officer Hansen described Caesar’s actions on the morning of April 26^th that led to the arrest of Rudy the car borrower.

It gets better! The District Attorney asked that Caesar appear in court to testify. I felt like saluting as Caesar took the stand. In true form Caesar raised his right paw and barked his sworn oath. Then he gave his account of that day.

They did a courtroom demonstration of the arrest. Caesar stood ready, his ears cocked forward, waiting for the signal from Officer Hansen. They brought in a police officer dressed in padding, who was supposed to look like the perpetrator. (Perpetrator means very, very bad dog in human speak.)

On command, Caesar lunged at the “perp” grabbing his right forearm in his massive jaw. They struggled for a few minutes. It looked as if Caesar had subdued the human, and then all of a sudden that sneaky bad guy slipped out of Caesar’s grasp. We all held our breath. What would happen next?

Then the “perp” did something really despicable. He pulled a sausage out of his pocket and threw it across the room, and he smiled and told Caesar, “go get it!” A sausage! How could any dog resist that?

But Caesar didn’t even flinch. He grabbed the human by the arm and held on until Officer Hansen slapped his handcuffs on the “perp” and led him away. I feel so much safer knowing that brave dogs like Caesar are patrolling our streets.

A Snapshot of Caesar on Patrol

I think I’m falling in love with Caesar. You may call it puppy love, a crush, infatuation, hero worship. But I can see a real future with Caesar—a litter of puppies, a vacation home in dog park.

This is Molly signing off with a sigh.

Jury Duty ‒ Day 5 The Wrap Up

This is Molly the Border Collie wrapping up her story about jury duty.

We found Rudy guilty of going for a ride in other people’s cars without their permission. He has to go to jail, which is like the pound only not as bad.

During a break, Caesar and I got some time alone together. Caesar said that he could easily fall for a girl like me, but he was married to his job. A police dog and a Border Collie—we come from two different worlds; it probably wouldn’t have worked out.
He licked my nose and walked away. “Here’s sniffin’ at you, Kid,” he said. “We’ll always have the steps of the courthouse.” Then he was gone. I’ll never forget that moment as long as I live.

My jury service is over, and I hold my head up higher now. I was part of the humans’ justice system, and I performed well, upholding the proud reputation of the Border Collie.

I’ll try to get my human to quit playing solitaire and give you her account of our jury service. Meanwhile, if you liked my story, please tell your friends about me.
With a proud salute to you all,

This is Molly, signing off.

Comment:

Wow, Molly, you got to meet Caesar? I've never apprehended a human -- just lots of tennis balls. I love tennis balls, don't you? They soak up mud and dew and spit. My human doesn't seem to like them. He throws them away. But I always bring 'em back as quickly as possible. And he complains when I drop them in his lap. I can carry two tennis balls in my mouth and run around the yard. Do they need a dog at the courthouse who can run with two tennis balls in his mouth? 'Cause if they do, I'm their dog!

Shadow

Photo by Geek-of-Nature

Comment:

Hi, Shadow,
TWO tennis balls—that's impressive! At the courthouse, they have a lot of people in handcuffs, and the bailiffs have to take them for a walk. I'll bet you would be a great people-walker.

Molly

This is Molly’s human, Elaine, setting the record straight about jury duty.

I like to write as Molly because she is much cuter than I am. The real Molly thinks blogging and computers are a waste of time that could be put to better use—like taking her for a walk.

Yes, I had jury duty. No, Molly did not get to come with me. I was an alternate juror, and didn’t get to vote on the verdict. Parking was a pain. Other than that, jury duty wasn’t bad.

Caesar was a figment of my imagination. Two of the officers who testified work with police dogs, and that’s where I got the idea of a police dog taking the stand.

I hope you liked my story. As Molly would say,

Licks and tail wags to you all.

Comments from Barbara Sher's website

"Hanging Out"

Photo by Marie Hale

Hi, Molly, I must say, you have gorgeous fur! Almost wolf-like. (I know you will pardon me putting it that way when I tell you I am myself a timber wolf.)

I am glad the jury duty was not too taxing for you. I can understand your interest in Caesar as he is a good-looking dog, even if he isn’t a wolf. I could go for you myself, but I have a lovely wife at home and five pups, and I am steadfastly monogamous I am proud to say.

Well, “Woof!” for now, as you domesticateds would say.

Molly:

Greetings, also, to you, Canadian Timber Wolf. Kudos on your fine family, and your decision to stay true to your wife.

May you be blessed with humans and wolves to love you and lots of room to run.

Molly, signing off.

My Scrapbook

I took my humans sailing on the bay.

Here I am showing Tom

how to steer the boat.

Spot lectures Jay on the dangers

of falling asleep at the wheel.

Some of my Good Friends from Dog Park

Just Kickin’Back

You can always judge a dog’s character

by smelling his butt.

My Dog Cousins

Buddy:

Raw Chihuahua Power

(of Undetermined Lineage)

Astro and Me in Training

Astro as a Puppy

Gopher Patrol

I Catch My First Gopher

What a tremendous experience! I was on gopher patrol in our garden, and, after considerable excavation, caught my first gopher. I looked up at my human, pleased, my prey dangling from my mouth.
My human said, “good job, Molly,” and gave me meatballs and a nice marrow bone to chew on, but she threw the gopher into the garbage while I was eating a meatball. Humans have no sense of gourmet dining.

z-z-z-z-z

Photo by Geek-of-Nature

When in doubt, take a nap.

z-z-z-z-z-z

Here I am taking a well-deserved break.

I wish I drank coffee.

t Barking Up My Family Tree

photo top right dog by Arbutus Photography

Ancestry.com (cont.)

I’ve been researching my lineage on Ancestry.com, and I found out that my mother was an Aussie, an Australian Shepherd. The funny thing is, no one in the family lived in Australia. They just herded Australian sheep in a place called California.

Sadie's Story

I can trace my line back to great-great-lots-of-greats-grandmother Sadie, who lived about fifty miles east of Sacramento. That was back in the Wild West days. One historic day, she and her human Jimmie were out on patrol when suddenly this gopher—the biggest gopher you’d ever want to see—poked his whiskers up from the ground and started giving Sadie some serious attitude. Like, “I dare you to catch me.”

Sadie All Ready to Pounce

In no time at all, Sadie was head deep up to her shoulders in the hole, and brick-orange dirt was flying around like mosquitoes in August. Faster and harder—Sadie kept digging, harder and harder still. Clay, small rocks, chunks of tree roots, they all got launched through the air.

Well, wouldn’t you know it—a small rock hit Jimmie Marshall in the head, and, when he picked it up, he noticed it was shiny. And that was when he went all discombobulated. He was whooping and stompin’ and hollerin’ like a cow on loco weed, and he ran all the way into town yelling, “Gold!!!! Gold!!!!” So that’s how they say James Marshall discovered gold in California.

They never did give Sadie any credit, but I don’t think she minded much.

The gopher got away.

Cisco's Story

I’m learning more about the Australian Shepherd side of my family. And remember, I told you about Sadie????

Well, I'm also related to Cisco who was Sadie’s son, and (I’m ashamed to say it) he was a chicken rustler and a garbage scrounger, but it wasn’t his fault. If humans leave garbage at dog- nose level, well, what do they expect of us? We’re only canine. And besides, back in Cisco’s day when the West was wild, all the garbage went for pig slop. Now I ask you, who’s more deserving—a noble dog or a blubbery pig????

Cisco

And as for the chicken incident, chickens are dumb and they’re all peck, plock, cluck, flutter, peck, cluck.

So one day, this hen Jessie got out into the carrot patch and was scratching and cluck-plocking.

Naturally, Cisco ran at the carrot patch with his hackles on chicken alert, just snarling, and growling, and ready to give her what for.

That’s when his female human noticed the activity, and, instead of praising Cisco for his courage, started calling, and yelling, and stomping her feet. But for some reason, Cisco got a temporary attack of deafness just then, and, instead of coming to his human, he gruff-ruffed right at the stupid chicken. (All chickens are stupid.)

He took a bite out of the chicken, and, by the time the human got there, the stupid chicken was lying all soggy and not moving—not so much as a twitch or a flutter. Cisco was trying to paw the feathers out of his mouth.

Well Cisco’s person was furious. We dogs don’t understand ALL the words humans say. (Except that Border Collies and Aussies understand more than most.) But we understand yelling and screaming just fine.

Back in those days, a dog that killed chickens was a dead dog walking, so poor Cisco was dragged back to the farmhouse and tied up to a hitching post for horses. Of course, Cisco got to chewing on the rope, but, before he could free himself, his human muzzled him with a fat old belt.

That night the male human came in from the fields, and got out his shotgun, and dragged ol’ Cisco by the rope to a spot behind the chicken coop.

He really wasn’t a bad human. It’s just that back then killing chickens was a criminal offense punishable by getting shot.

So this human sat down next to Cisco and scratched his ears and his chest ‘cause he really loved Cisco in spite of his failings. But the human knew what he had to do. He picked up the shotgun and took aim and —wouldn’t you know it—there was Jessie just a struttin’ and a cluckin’ and not dead at all. And acting like she was a smart dog instead of a dumb chicken.

Jessie the Dumb Chicken

Photo by Watt Publishing

So they stuffed a bunch of chicken feathers, and mud, and straw, and more feathers into an old flour sack and tied the sack around Cisco’s neck, and Cisco had to drag that sack around for a week.

After that he left the chickens alone. But he still got into the garbage once in a while.

My human friend Linda says that I should apologize to chickens everywhere.

Sorry, chickens, for saying you’re stupid, and for wanting to eat you. There, I said it. (But chickens really are stupid and tasty.)

Linda also says that chickens will sometimes faint or play dead when they’re in danger, and that’s probably what Jessie was doing.

Sundance's Story

I found one more Australian Shepherd that I’m related to. It’s Cisco’s great-great-grandson, Sundance. He was named after a human who robbed trains, which was a really bad idea for a name, if you ask me.

Picture of Humans Behaving Badly

photo by Robert Linsdell

At that time in Hangtown, there was this place called The Rattle Snake Bar where male humans liked to drink orange water and watch female humans kick up their legs and show their bloomers.

Photo by Azwari Nugraha

Kate was the alpha female (human) there, and she had this little frou-frou dog called Madame Fifi. When all the kicking was over, Kate used to bounce to the front and lift her skirt. Then Madame Fifi would jump out of Kate’s bloomers, do a dog dance, and run around to the bar where someone would give her a piece of bacon.

Well, one day, Sundance was taking a dog nap just outside The Rattle Snake Bar, and he woke up just as Madam Fifi was doing her dance. Madam Fifi smelled good. She smelled really, REALLY good. Sundance ran into the saloon, jumped Madam Fifi and enveloped her in a firm embrace. The humans hollered and tried to grab Sundance, but there was no stopping him, a fool in love.

Kate shrieked. She’d paid a lot of money for Madam Fifi, which is a big deal to humans.

She yelled at Sundance a lot because of that.

Later Madam Fifi gave birth to five colliedoodles who didn’t know anything about sheep.

Portrait of a Colliedoodle

(No relation to me.)

My human, I’m sorry to say, has been watching television when she should have been taking me for walks in the park. I need exercise to keep my doggy figure slim. (My human needs exercise even more than I do—MUCH more than I do.) I felt obliged to tell her this, and I pawed her arm and licked her face and nosed her VERY LARGE STOMACH and jumped up and down to get attention.

Human’s note:

Molly has been exaggerating as usual. She gets a walk every day of her life, even during baseball season. And I may be a tad plump, but I am definitely not fat.

Baseball season! That explains it! She has baseball fever. Apparently my human is hooked on watching baseball, and she gets all crazy and yells at the TV. “What do ya mean, safe? He was out by a mile. Get some glasses. Where did you learn to ump—in a dog kennel?” (I’m sure she meant no disrespect to dogs living in kennels, but, I have to admit, the words did seem particularly insensitive.)

Baseball appears to be a human form of playing fetch. I might be interested. I like chasing balls, but I don’t bring them back because that’s my human’s job. In baseball it seems that all they do is throw balls, and catch them, and run around a lot. I wouldn’t mind doing that.

I told my friend Shadow about baseball, and he was very interested. You see, Shadow can hold two balls in his mouth at the same time. TWO BALLS! Can you believe that? And Shadow is as obsessed about chasing balls as my human is about computer solitaire and watching television. We decided to try out for a baseball team.

Right off the bat, (that’s a joke- get it????)

we ran into a problem. It seems that there are rules in baseball about spitballs. And Shadow, I’m sorry to say, throws nothing but spitballs.

Photo (cropped) by Eric Sontroem

(I throw spitballs too, but mine are much more genteel, and have a lot less spit on them.) So we decided that we shouldn’t try out to be pitchers.

Batting is also a problem for dogs, as holding a heavy bat in your mouth and swinging at a ball requires strong jaw muscles and well-rooted teeth. On the positive side, we canine athletes have a very small strike zone.

My Border Collie work ethic came in handy here, and in no time at all my mouth had become accustomed to the weight of the bat and the jarring thud as the bat connects with the ball. My

batting average rose steadily until I was batting .327. Shadow did quite well too, but his forte will always be catching balls in his mouth. I am happy to state that both of us adapted quite well to the switch from tennis balls (which are a lot softer) to baseballs.

Picture of a Human Hitting a Baseball

Note that he holds his bat the easy way, in his hands and not in his mouth.

It was time for Shadow and me to visit the various teams for try-outs.

I’m sad to report that many Major League Baseball teams showed a decided bias against canine athletes.

Discrimination against dogs!!!!

Photo by Tim Massey

Shadow and I did not think their “pee-on-the-umpire" jokes were particularly funny. (Although I must admit that Buddy might just do something like that.)

And ONE ball player (whose name I won’t mention) scattered sausage chunks in the outfield just as I was making an exceedingly difficult jumping catch with the ball bouncing off of the back fence. I almost made the catch anyway, but the team manager was not impressed. Getting to play Major League Baseball was going to be harder than I had expected.

The sausage was delicious.

A gloomy mist settled around us as we got off the plane in Boston, just two crazy kids with a slobbery ball, a dream, and hearts as big as Massachusetts. The Red Sox were our last hope. 2012 had not been their year, and we felt sure we could help them improve their game if they’d just give us a chance. But were they willing to trust us? To pin their hopes on a dog who could hold two balls in his mouth at the same time, and a high-achieving Border Collie batting .327? With everything riding on this final chance, we hailed a taxi. "Fenway Park," barked Shadow.

Fenway smelled of old shoes and hot dogs. I am a connoisseur of hot dogs, and these were the best I'd ever smelled.

Fenway Park

Photo by InSapphoWeTrust

Manager John Farrell was very impressed with both of us and recruited Shadow and me right then and there.

Fortunately Dr. Juriceck, the in-house vet for the Red Sox, was an ardent proponent of canine athletics. A brilliant human, he worked as hard and as enthusiastically as any Border Collie. He fitted Shadow and me with special mouth guards for batting. They protected our teeth as we clamped on to the bat, and distributed the force of the bat connecting with the ball throughout our whole mouth. (I was willing to share, but Shadow wanted his own mouth guard.) Now free of pain and without the distracting fear of losing all my teeth, I was able to get impressive distance and accuracy each time at bat.

During practice, Shadow and I were the first players on the field each day, and the last ones to go home. Eagerly I anticipated the day when we would play in a real Major League Baseball game.

Photo by John Hjelle (cropped)

My First Time at Bat

A picture-perfect San Francisco afternoon at AT&T Park, with the Pacific Ocean gently rippling in the background—this was the backdrop for my first time at bat. It was the bottom of the ninth with two outs and the score four to two in favor of the San Francisco Giants.

AT& T Park in San Francisco

Photo by John Hjelle

We had runners on second and third. I was sent in to pinch hit for Brandon Snyder who had pulled a hamstring while making an amazing save.

"Don't swing, Molly," Coach Colbrunn told me. "Let them walk you. David Ortiz is on deck after you, and he's our best hope to score."

Confidently I strode out onto the field listening for my name to be announced over the loud speaker.

"Pinch hitting for Brandon Snyder—Molly."

A long silence followed.

"Wait this can't be right. Someone turn off the mike."

When the mike clicked back on the announcer was dithering.

"Folks, I can't believe this. Molly is a dog! A DOG. Is that even legal??? The Giants are challenging her eligibility. Rule books are flying. The Giants' coach is shaking his fist in the air. I can't believe this. I've heard some cussin' in my day, but nothing like this."

The microphone crackled and fizzed with static. Finally the announcer came back on the air again. "They're going to let her play. You're seeing history today, folks, the first canine to play in Major League Baseball! They're going to let her play. That's right. You heard me, folks, they're going to let the collie play!"

I gripped the bat in my teeth, crouched into a batting stance, and waited.

"Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable! How's he ever going to get the ball into her strike zone? He has the width of a baseball plus, maybe... a foot to spare. Okay, he's winding up; he throws; the pitch is... I can't believe it. He did it! It's a strike! Fast ball, just inside the corner pocket."

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Surely he couldn't do it again. What if I struck out? I couldn't live with the shame.

But then I remembered a famous poem, "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Thayer. This was the same situation—ninth inning, four to two, but instead of Casey at the bat, it was Molly at the bat. I stood up a little straighter, even though it increased my strike zone.

The pitcher was preparing his second pitch. He wound up; he stretched; he threw. The ball was heading wide; no, it curved and just made the outside corner. "Strike two," the umpire called. (He didn't have to yell it so loudly.)

I looked over at Coach Colbrunn. and he gave me the nod to go ahead and hit. This was exactly like "Casey at the Bat." Casey had let the first two pitches go by and he swung on the third. Like Casey, I clenched my teeth in cruel hatred, and I pounded the bat violently on the plate (hard to do if you're a dog), envisioning the glory and the liver snacks that would soon be mine.

But then...oh the horror of it all... I remembered the rest of the poem. Casey struck out! In the last line of the poem, mighty Casey struck out. My heart was filled with dread such as I'd never known. What if I, too, struck out?

There was no time to think. The pitcher threw a thunderous fast ball and his aim was true. I swung. As in the poem, the air was shattered by the force of my bat on the ball. (My teeth were a little jarred as well in spite of the mouth guard.)

The crowd was cheering and chanting, "Go Sox, Go Sox, Go Sox." And then suddenly they switched: "Go Molly, Go Molly, Go Molly."

"The ball is flying. My goodness, that dog is all heart. You should have seen the force she let loose on the ball! The crowd is hysterical. You can't imagine the crying and the screaming. The ball is high up in the air. It's going... it's going... it's going... and it's gone! A home run! The Sox win five to four. What a thrilling ending to a game! Red Sox fans are going to remember this play for a long time."

I pranced around the bases for the winning run; then I trotted up to the mound and gave the pitcher a nice lick on his nose to make sure there were no hard feelings.

Photo by John Hjelle (cropped)

After that Shadow and I played often and were responsible for many hits and some great saves.

So many wonderful memories of my baseball season with the Red Sox! Cheering for Shadow as he ran the bases and made double plays! John Farrell sharing his rib bones with me! The day the squirrel got loose in the bleachers!

David Ortiz and I formed a very close friendship. I tried his chewing tobacco, and he tried my pig's ear, but neither one of us switched. (There's no accounting for taste.)

We were a team, first, last and always. We had each other's backs. We cheered for the wins and consoled each other through the dry streaks. We hung out together at a place where everybody knew your name, drinking beer and talking about the women and the dogs we had loved.

As Shadow and I made play after play, our names became known, and the fan mail poured in. I was thrilled to receive a letter from Caesar, the police dog. He said that he remembered our brief encounter at the court house, and that he and his human have been following my career with interest.

But my fan mail was nothing compared to Shadow's. He received bags of mail every day, and all kinds of presents from squeaky toys to tennis balls. One fan even sent him a large bucket of liver snacks which he did not share.

And the baseball groupies! In every city we came to, Shadow was met by a pack of admirers sniffing around and licking his nose. There's no denying it—Shadow is an amazing ball-catcher, and one handsome dude—and I fear it all went to his head.

They say that there's always love on the road, and in Shadow's case it was absolutely true. Many were the nights when Shadow hung a tie on the knob of his hotel room door indicating that he did not want to be disturbed.

One groupie in particular, Leticia the Rottweiler, developed quite a crush on Shadow, and followed our team bus from city to city. I didn't trust that she-dog, not for a minute. Suddenly Shadow began skipping practices, claiming that he needed to visit a sick grandmother.

One night I walked into his hotel room with a Beggin' Strip for a peace offering, and there he was, on the floor with Leticia, their noses half-buried in a liver-snack bucket. Shadow jumped up, startled. He pointed his tail straight to the ceiling, a doggie sign of dominance, and he snapped at me, growled, and gestured with his paw toward the door.

I left, but from the hallway I could hear Leticia's voice, smarmy and oily. "Oh, Shadow, you don't need all that practice, and you certainly don't need that overactive Border Collie. You're the star of the team. Everyone knows it. You're famous now, but I could make you a super star. I have the connections. I know all the big wigs in Hollywood. Think of it—Nike commercials, guest appearances with Jay Leno, maybe even a movie. You'd be bigger than Lassie, or Rin Tin Tin, or Spuds MacKenzie. Heck, you'd even be bigger than Snoopy. I can see it now—Academy Awards Night, you up on the stage hugging the Oscar in your paws. 'This award really belongs to Leticia the Rottweiler without whose encouragement...' "

How could Shadow fall for that...that pack of squirrel chatter? Where was the Shadow that I used to know? Where was the puppy-like innocence? The ecstatic, tail-thumping delight in slobbery balls? I couldn't listen to any more of it. I walked back to my room and consoled my heavy heart with a well-chewed piece of rawhide.

The next day, Shadow and I had it out. "We're a team," I told him. "We work as a team. We play ball as a team. And when you grandstand, and skip practice to play chase the Rottweiler, you're no good to the Red Sox, and you're no good to yourself. As for that Leticia, that...that...Spaghetti-Letty, she doesn't care about you. She's nothing but a cheap liver-snack digger!"

Shadow dropped his head because he knew I was right. After that he acknowledged his fans, but never let fame go to his head. And that's when his career skyrocketed.

Watching Shadow was an amazing experience, what baseball should be about. With Shadow at bat, you never knew what to expect—a sizzling shot to right field, a ball blasted clear up into the bleachers. But his strength was always on defense. In a blur of paws and dog hair, he'd zoom around the field making catch after incredible catch, play after seemingly impossible play.

The climax of Shadow's career came in the seventh game of the World Series. It was the bottom of the ninth, the score tied three to three, one out, and Matt Holliday of the St. Louis Cardinals on third base, threatening to score.

"Batting for the Cardinals, Merle Terret."

There was bad blood between Merle and me. Once he had stepped on my tail almost preventing me from running to first base, and I believe he did it on purpose. A tail is a very delicate part of a dog's anatomy.

Anyway, as he came up to bat, I felt the anger boiling in my blood. He just had a bad smell about him.

Merle shot a wicked line drive aimed between first and second base. The whole stadium was on their feet screaming. Merle let out a whoop loud enough to be heard in Texas, threw the bat in ecstasy, and ran for first base, wearing the smuggest look you've ever seen on a human. With that hit Matt Holliday would score, giving the Cardinals the game and making them the World Series Champions of 2013.

And seemingly out of nowhere, Shadow was there. He lunged at the ball, still in the air, and caught it just before it passed by second base. He snapped around for the throw to home plate for the final out, but there was no one to throw to. Our catcher was down. Dan Butler was lying in a daze just behind home plate. In spite of the padding, Merle Terret's bat had struck him in the back of the head, knocking him out cold. Meanwhile Matt Holliday had tagged third base, and was now barreling toward home plate.

"Holliday's tagged the base. Holliday has gone back and tagged the base; he can score!"

"And that's the game right there folks. Holliday will score. The Cardinals will win it all, the inning, the game and the World Series, four games to three. A shame folks. You hate to see a game won by because of an injury. But wait. It's not over yet. Here's Shadow running for home plate!"

Now the announcer was screaming into the mike—one beat shy of a heart attack.

" Impossible! Bats and baseballs, look at that canine run! Folks, he's pouring everything he has into it. But can he possibly get there in time? The Red Sox's only hope rests on the back of that brave Labrador Retriever running the race of his life."

My heart was in my mouth as Shadow raced towards home plate, the ball clutched fast in his teeth. He was lighting fast, but he had so much ground to cover. Could he make it?

"And it looks like that's the game, folks. Shadow gave it his all, but there's just too much ground to cover. Holliday will score."

But I had faith in Shadow. Faster still, he ran. Now he was just a furry blur racing towards home plate. With a final supercanine lunge, he pawed the plate a nose ahead of Matt Holliday and tagged him out.

"He's done it! Shadow's run has put the Red Sox back in business. And so the game goes into extra innings."

The tenth inning was scoreless. In the eleventh inning, I hit a double, then scored on a David Ortiz sacrifice fly.

Bottom of the eleventh, and we were ahead by one. If we could only keep the Cardinals from scoring! Pitcher Burke Badenhop threw some wicked curves, splitters, and fast balls, pitches that legends are made of. The first two batters struck out. But then Daniel Descalso got a base hit, and that brought Matt Carpenter out of the dugout. His bat connected with the first pitch, hard and fast, and the ball was on its way.

"Long ball flying past second.

" It can't be! It looks like Gomes and Shadow are both going after it. Oh, no! They're about to run into each other—a ridiculous conclusion to what has been arguably the most thrill-packed World Series in history. Meanwhile the ball is headed out of the park and it should clear the back fence by a good two feet. It's going; it's going; it's going...

"I don't believe it. I see it, but I still don't believe it. Shadow has just jumped on Jonny Gomes' shoulder and catapulted himself into the air like a Nike missile. And, yes, his teeth have connected with the ball. Now he's falling back onto the grass and he's landed just inside the back fence. Is he hurt? Is Shadow injured? No, Shadow seems to be all right. And does he have the ball? Was he able to hold onto the ball? Yes. He has the ball! He does have the ball in his teeth! And the Boston Red Sox have just clinched the 2013 World Series Championship.

"What a game, folks! What a game! Congratulations to the Boston Red Sox. The only team to win three trophies in the 21st century—2004, 2007, and now 2013. What a team! What a game!

"And the stadium has exploded. Sox fans are screaming and hugging each other!

"Meanwhile the Red Sox's dugout looks like an erupting volcano. Players are pouring out onto the field, shouting and barking. Champagne corks and liver snacks are flying everywhere. And now they're carrying Shadow on their shoulders. What an experience!"

"Just wait till next year," Matt Carpenter was heard to grumble.

"Shadow, the Boston Red Sox have just won the World Series. So what's next?"

"I'm going to Disneyland."

Shadow often recounts that game saving catch of the low line drive and his race to home plate, followed by his flawless execution of skidoo alley oop. Of course such inhuman feats are quite possible for him.

We'd won the World Series! Heroes in the eyes of the nation. All of us together—a team of champions! What a feeling! Better than the finest liver snacks at Pet Smart.

Such good times! Those were the days of wine and doughnuts. They were not to last.

Dr. Juriceck approached me in the locker room, and I could read from the look in his eyes and the tightness in his jaw that he had something terrible to say.

I licked his nose trustingly and he rubbed the fur on my neck. "Molly," he began, then broke down, sobbing unashamedly.

"Molly, your jaw can't take it. Even with the mouth guard, those supercanine smashes—those jarring hits—the bat against the ball. If only you'd held back just a little... But that's not your style, is it, girl? I can't, in good conscience, let you play next year." The tears flowed unchecked down his cheeks, and he buried his face into my neck.

I hung my head, my ears pressed flat back in sorrow. But I knew, even as my soul rebelled, that he was right. I remembered my mouth throbbing for days after some of my more powerful hits.... Only a week ago, I'd refused a ham bone; the pain of chewing was that intense."

"What about Shadow?" I asked.

Dr. Juraceck shook his head. "Maybe, some years down the road when we've perfected the mouth guard, there will be canine baseball players again, but, as for you and Shadow, your careers are over."

Now as I reflect on my season with the Sox, I know that I was one of the lucky ones. I had my days of glory. It's right that the baton be passed to some young human, some crazy kid with nothing but a ball, a dream, and a heart as big as Massachusetts.

But Shadow's amazing accomplishments will not be forgotten. He is to be inducted into Baseball's Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, where the baseball greats are immortalized.

We'll always remember them: Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, and Shadow.

Photo of Shadow for the Baseball Hall of Fame

Photo by Geek-of-Nature

Human's Note:

Apologies to the Boston Red Sox, the San Francisco Giants, the St. Louis Cardinals, all the players, and to baseball in general. It seems that Molly got carried away again. The Boston Red Sox won the 2013 World Series in six games, and without any help from Molly and Shadow. Merle Terret never stepped on Molly's tail, nor did he ever, to my knowledge, knock out a catcher. Dogs are not eligible to play on Major League Baseball teams (spitball issues aside.) Shadow can, however, carry two tennis balls in him mouth at the same time.

My friend Eileen wrote this poem for me:

Ode to Molly

When I think of the lovely Miss Molly,

My heart feels unusually jolly.

She's not only smart and eager to please,

Facts I’ve gleaned from her human, Elaine,

But she’s mischievous, too,

And loves to pursue

Squirrels, whose laughter makes their contempt plain.

Squirrel patrol can be dangerous. Here I am hot on the trail of a perpetrator. The tricky part is getting back down.

As a Border Collie (at least in part),

You know she works hard and has a big heart.

Plus, you’ve got to admire a dog

Who actually has her own blog.

She writes of her life there, including Elaine.

Like when they served on a jury

(Where parking was a pain).

Molly’s early days may have had some hard knocks.

“I’m so glad I found you!” Elaine told her.

Now, even if she digs in the flower box,

Elaine finds it too hard to scold her.

I wasn't supposed to bury my rawhide in the flower box. Who knew????

She once was the saddest dog at the pound,

But with her human to love her, she’s the gladdest dog around.

Epilogue

Photo by Geek-of-Nature

If you’re a human with a kind heart.

Get down to the pound, and make a start.

Give a chance to another dog, cat, or bunny,

Who needs a good home; it doesn’t take much money.

Healthy food, affection, and of course, some petting,

Not much to ask for the love you’ll be getting.

Molly's comment:

Be sure the pet you adopt is right for you. Working dogs like me require a lot of exercise. Puppies pee, poop, and jump on people. And they chew toys, furniture, library books, and everything else including your fingers. (They're cute, so they get away with stuff like that.)

"If you talk with the animals they will talk with you and you will know each other. If you do not talk to them, you will not know them, and what you do not know you will fear. What one fears, one destroys."

Chief Dan George

Human’s Note:

No sheep, squirrels, dogs, baseballs, or chickens were hurt during the making of this book. (However, Molly really did catch a gopher. Sorry, little guy, but she IS a dog.)

A warm, wet lick to you all. May your dishes overflow with liver snacks; may you catch that gopher; may you snuggle up next to someone you love; may all your dreams come true.

Molly signing off.

Photo by Sue Hirschman