Molly Pearce Chandler, September 2010 to March 16, 2023 

Just a year ago, three sets of eyes followed me throughout my day - Jasmine, my feline workmate by day and bedmate by night; Bid who conveyed her boundless love through her piercing yet soulful blue eyes and who provided the last connection to the little family Jack and I had; and sweet Molly who joined us during Jack’s illness as a fully grown dog and who observed the world with an Eeyore lens, balancing out the Bidi’s Tigger-like qualities. I’ve blogged about the difficult decisions I made in April and again in September to help Jasmine and Bidi to die humanely. 

This week, I made that same decision for Molly.  

Molly’s early years were spent with my friend, Liz’s, Aunt Muriel Pearce. I’ve blogged about Molly’s life with Muriel and its impacts here and here. In short, Muriel had enormous love for Molly, lavishing her with affection, but, regrettably, not housetraining. When six-year-old Molly arrived in the Chandler/Sikorski household, she brought her own personality, two coats, a Santa suit, and a need for pee-pads. That was nearly seven years ago.  

She bonded quickly with Bidi, although after a short honeymoon period, the reverse was not always true. They fought over the things in life that matter - food, toys, and attention - to the point that Jack and I doled everything out surreptitiously. Molly often got the short-end of the stick on the attention front, although of course, not literally — sticks were among the many activities that were simply off the table. Only once did their skirmishes result in medical care but after several of those fights, Molly bled from her neck; because of the considerable size difference, Bidi bore only ankle wounds.

While Bidi limped towards her death in 2022, Molly became a cougher. Don’t judge, but I dismissed it as an attention-seeking device. In late summer, Molly coughed to the point she passed out prompting a trip to the vet and a diagnosis of congestive heart failure. Molly’s heart had grown two sizes too big. 

In the six months since, I have kept Molly alive with meds. In the last few weeks, though, her coughing had increased seemingly in proportion to her shrinking weight. She’d lost nearly 10% of her poundage since December. 

While I have now made the decision to euthanize a pet six times, each one has been a torturous process. When is it too soon? Who will judge me? Will the vet think I’m giving up? Am I doing it for my own convenience? Is this pet becoming too expensive relative to the pleasure she experiences? Should the pleasure I experience with her be a factor? Is she in pain or otherwise suffering? These are heavy, heavy questions to ponder especially as a solo pet owner. My friends have endured countless hours of me mulling out loud the fate of Molly, so much so it’s become a rather dark joke with at least one of them. But that’s another story. 

This week, though, I had a refreshingly honest conversation with the vet. Molly’s bloodwork showed new complications and that, coupled with the weight loss, made me raise the prospect of euthanasia. The vet was sympathetic, noting that if avoiding a pet suffering is the goal, then it’s better to make the decision too soon than too late. That was comforting since, of course, suffering is the primary consideration. 

The vet also reminded me Molly was alive only with the aid of drugs, making me think of my mother’s frequent comment: “They’ve figured out how to make us live longer but they haven’t figured out why.”  It’s unlikely my 18 pound Lhasa-poo had these kinds of existential questions in her undersized head. Nevertheless, imagining Molly was feeling “done” as mom and so many of her nonagenarian friends report, helped me get to the right decision. 

Molly Pearce Chandler died with medical assistance on Thursday, March 16 at approximately 9 a.m.  I will miss her and so will her many canine and human friends, especially her cousin, Liz; her walker, Jennifer; and her best COVID companion, Janice.

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