Almost 12 years ago a small ball of fur named Dingo Molly came into my life.  Needless to
say it has never been the same.                                                                    

On that day I went to adopt a dog from a local animal shelter.     I gazed into a large cage of frisky puppies.  A tiny mixed breed shepard pushed her way from the back and came right up to me.  We looked at each other a long time, we recognized each other, it was my Molly and she wanted to go home.

Now my Molly is high maintenance.  She has taken over couches, chairs and beds as her own.  Tons of squeeky toys are scattered around.  No meal for her is complete without dusting shredded sharp cheddar on top.  Oh and don't forget the doggie ice cream on hot summer days.

But she does pull her weight.  Her bark protects me from the mailman bringing bills (thank you Molly) and from the evil vacuum cleaner.   Her fur is the softest thing in my universe and petting her brings a great sense of peace.   When I come home from work her joy makes me happy.

So what if I step on squeaky toys in the middle of night, it only tells me that Molly is home.