Molly
loves clean laundry. She lurks near the
laundry room, ready to snatch the used dryer sheets that float to the
floor. She tucks them in her crate and
snuggles with them at bedtime. She eyes
me warily as I clean her crate of dryer sheet debris each week, the lavender scent
long faded from the white fibers.
Molly
also loves a freshly pressed shirt. Each
morning, she pads into the bedroom and slowly shifts back and forth beneath the
dangling dress shirt that the Englishman is ironing. It’s a morning ritual as sacred as that first
cup of coffee sipped in silence.
The Englishman need not be present for Molly’s morning ritual. On a recent week-long business trip, there were no shirts to be pressed in the pre-dawn hours. I found Molly in the closet, creeping gently along the edges of a row of shirts, the fabric softly caressing her head. I sat down, gave her a hug and whispered, “I miss him, too.”
