This really has nothing to do with feminism, politics, independent music or games. Instead, this here is a little ditty about a girl and her dog. I had originally planned to write about my recent quarter-life-crisis induced lunacy and about how it uniquely plagues our generation. In fact, I was about three-fourths of the way towards completing that entry when a creature of the four-legged variety unexpectedly usurped my life.

N. and I were back home visiting family for Father's Day weekend, a weekend so completely chaotic that I was able to spend only about three minutes with my own father (let the record reflect that I am a bad daughter). We had been approached by a family member about a dog that belonged to another relative, wondering if we had room for another pooch in our home already overrun with whiskered, fuzzy faces. We had actually been planning to adopt a retired racing greyhound--a dog for me, a dog I would bestow with a keenly intelligent name like Nigel or Gatsby or Fiona. A dog unlike our adorably neurotic Chihuahua mix, Edison, who is so attached to N. that I'm convinced Velcro is somehow involved. We had slowly been acquiring accessories for our soon-to-come grey: a big dog bed, big dog toys, big dog bowls. We had even secured a contract with a local fence company to have our sardine can of a backyard enclosed for said needle-nosed canine. My heart was intent on Nigel/Gatsby/Fiona.

The family member continued to prod, however: "She's been kept chained up in the backyard for years." Any dog lover will agree that those words equal blasphemy. Under the assurance that the dog's owners wouldn't be home, we agreed to take a peek at the dog. We really had no expectations about the visit, but as veteran vegans, we both have an opinion or two about how animals should be treated. And it didn't take being a vegan to be dismayed at our discovery. As we rounded the corner of the house to the back yard, we saw her: a shell of a dog, covered in scabs, cuts, bugs, and filth. She plodded out, as far as her chain would allow, to greet us. Her skinny tufted tail bobbed as our hearts and stomachs sank. Her water bowl was overgrown with green algae. It was hot as hell out. Closer inspection found that she had a green goopy discharge from one of her eyes. We had been told that she was a Samoyed, a Siberian work dog, one of those big, fluffy, white snowballs of a dog. Only she was none of those things; all of her fur had been sloppily shorn, save for her head, which eerily made her look like Boober from Fraggle Rock, if Boober had had whitish hair. A foreshadowing of tears, my nose began to burn. Images of greyhounds no longer danced in my head. I needed to take this dog home with me. She needed me to do so. Her appearance notwithstanding, she was beautiful to me and I wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and show her what it means to be a happy, spoiled dog.

And so it was done. We asked the relatives if we could take the dog off their hands, and they agreed. They seemed appreciative even, admitting that they had kept her outside because once they had moved into their new house, they didn't want the dog shedding all over the place. It was all I could do to conceal how incredulous I found their reasoning. They had moved into an affluent neighborhood years ago and had left their dog to endure some of the harshest winters and most hellacious summers in recent history because of dog hair? Other absurdities were shared, but I won't get into those here. I'd rather forget them, really.

She rode the hour and a half long trip back to our house like a champ. She played my heartstrings like a harp; every few minutes or so, I'd glance back at her in amazement. She was so sweet and curious and comfortable with us. Without warning, my heart had been stolen so quickly, so wholly.

We gave her a bath that night and were able to see the true extent of her injuries. They were gag-worthy. I would make an appointment with the vet that cares for Edison first thing Monday morning.

In the meantime, I snuggled, I adored, I doted. Beside our house runs a canal, and along the canal winds a tree-canopied path. When the canal is full of water, the path is a beautiful, tranquil place to lazily saunter, leash in hand. It's easily one of my favorite places to walk Edison. We figured that since our new pup had a new home and fresh start, she rightfully deserved a new name. It was on the canal path that we decided to rename her Molly. She makes a perfect Molly. Mollers. Molls. Miss Molly. Molly Girl.

I had envisioned more strolls along the water and romps in the dog park with future dog friends. There is something quaint and romantic about a connection you share with your dog: when she nuzzles your hand for more affection, when her tail wags when you walk in the door, when she offers a sighing "arrumph" as she settles comfortably into her dog bed, when you find yourself daydreaming about her while you're at work. Yow, I was whipped.

It was at her vet appointment that things began to unravel...and quickly. She tested positive for heartworms, parasites that are not only easily preventable, but also fatal if left untreated (and still potentially fatal even with treatment). We knew going into this, as any pet owner does, that we were assuming financial obligations for Molly. We had no idea just how big an obligation we'd eventually honor. Heartworm treatment is costly (unlike its preventative, a pill your doggie pops once a month), but looking back at it, the cost seems so meager.

We had initially been told that Molly was eight years old, though records later supplied to us by her previous owners ultimately revealed that she was actually 12. Despite her age, we decided to pursue the heartworm treatment. I wanted this dog to have a few good years with us. Years of rolling in the grass. Years of belly rubs. Years. She deserved them.

What followed Molly's heartworm treatment is a blur to me, as if I watched it unfolding under water. The order of events is cluttered in my brain, but I do know that until yesterday, she had spent more time with the vet than she had in my home. After the treatment she simply could not regain her strength. She ran fevers of 103 and 104, was lethargic, dehydrated, depressed. When we took her back to the vet the first time after treatment, she had an obscenely high white blood cell count (46,000) indicating she was fighting an infection. She was placed on intravenous antibiotics, but her white blood cell count continued to climb (as did our vet bill). She stayed with the vet three and five days at a time, and I have mixed feelings about now being on a first name basis with the vet clinic staff.

One particular night when she was home with us, her condition was so frighteningly unstable that I decided to sleep on the couch next to her dog bed. I slept very little, but when I did manage to slip into a velvety sleep, my brain played visions of Molly like an old film projector. I dreamt of her blithely bounding through a moss-carpeted forest with me close behind, something she will now probably never do. The night was so rough that I had to take her back to the vet the next morning. Dr. Ireland promised to call me later in the day.

Sitting at my desk that afternoon, I answered Dr. Ireland's call. She had diagnosed Molly with Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia (AIHA), more than likely a result of the heartworms. Her body was raging against itself, attacking and killing its own red blood cells. She was getting little oxygen in her blood, and her weak little body was losing its battle. She told me Molly might not make it through the night. Robbed of my vocabulary, I promptly laid my head on my desk and wept. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my heart. She had only been with us weeks, but I loved her so much already.

That was a week ago. Molly made it through that night and, with the help of steroids and antibiotics, has managed to make it through six more. She's been home with me three days now, and this is probably the longest span of time we've spent together since that very first vet visit when she was diagnosed with heartworms. She's still touch and go, far from out of the woods. Things really could go either way at this point. Dr. Ireland said that AIHA is incredibly difficult to prognose and that seemingly recovered dogs can quickly relapse and die. Molly is still very weak, and we have to carry her up and down our front steps so that she can go to the bathroom. I make little meatballs out of her prescription canned dog food so that I can stuff them with the many medications she's on, and for this vegan it is a sacrifice gladly made. We have to keep her inactive and confined so that her body can have the (hopeful) ability to make healthy new red blood cells without further strain. I've been taking an hour of sick leave every day so that I can go home and check on her in the middle of the day, and each time I put my key in the door, my heart contracts with the panic of possibly finding her no longer with me, her tiny spirit defeated.

I slept out on the couch with her again last night and I periodically woke up to check on her. Her soft, white fur is growing back, and without my glasses and with sleepy eyes, she looked like a ghost, a peaceful apparition serenely sleeping. And I had to touch her to make sure she was still real, still with me.

Maybe I have no true moral to extend by sharing this story with you. Maybe it just feels relieving to momentarily unburden myself of these few sad weeks. But maybe you've endured the searing helplessness and sweeping downheartedness of watching your sick and/or dying friend and you get this. Or maybe you'll give an animal a compassionate second chance at life. What is certain, nonetheless, is that animals capture parts of our hearts that nothing else can and they leave a profound paw print on our existences. They perfect us.