The light of the righteous shines brightly, but the lamp of the wicked is snuffed out (Proverbs 13:9).

Hannah loved Muffy more than anything else in the world.  The silky springer spaniel was her very best friend -- and had been for just about as long as she could remember.  Muffy had tolerated Hannah’s tail-tugging, back when the little girl was first learning to crawl, and then walk.  Muffy had warmed the foot of Hannah’s bed on the nights when she would cry and cry and cry, missing Mommy, Muffy’s tongue caressing the girl’s feet in an attempt to offer comfort as Hannah’s tears fell to her pillow like steaming liquid diamonds.  And Muffy had joined Hannah and her father on that long, lonely, bumpy boat ride out to this stupid, cursed island where they now lived.

Hannah’s Mom had always said that Muffy would make an excellent mother -- and indeed this could hardly be doubted, judging from the dog’s gentle disposition toward Hannah, her sharp bark toward strangers, and her inexplicable persona communicating care and comfort.  But alas, it was never meant to be.  When Muffy was just three years old, back when the family was still living on the mainland, she had been struck by a speeding delivery truck just outside the family’s home.  The family rushed her to the veterinarian in time to save the poor pup’s life, but the doctor said that Muffy would never be able to have puppies, on account of her internal injuries.  To reduce the risk of infection, in fact, the dog’s uterus was entirely removed:  a canine hysterectomy.  But it all worked out in the end because Hannah came along, about a year later, and Muffy’s mothering skills were certainly not wasted.  Muffy was a beautiful, long-suffering, and gracious caretaker, companion, and confidante for Hannah.  So it should not be surprising that Hannah loved Muffy more than anything else in the world.

One must not fault Hannah that her father did not occupy this place of honor in her heart.  Of course Hannah loved him, too, as any little girl cannot help but love her father.  But he was a sad, hollow, shell of a man who had only once been a good father.  When he lost his wife and two oldest daughters in a gruesome automobile accident, nobody faulted him for taking the job keeping the lighthouse out at Bethlehem Island.  It was a place devoid of automobile traffic and concerned neighbors.  It was a place as blue and lonesome as the cold north Atlantic which surrounded it -- which made it, of course, a perfect place for grieving and groaning.

The tiny island was probably not the best place, however, for an eight-year-old girl to live.  And probably not for a twelve-year-old dog either… But it was nevertheless their life.  Hannah’s father would start the day with his duties keeping the lighthouse:  polishing mirrors, cleaning windows, double-checking and triple-checking the lamps, completing the daily log of activities.  Meanwhile, Hannah would prepare breakfast, do the cleaning, the clothing, the gardening, as Muffy scampered along dutifully, offering her help and contribution in the form of companionship.  When Father would come downstairs, his lighthouse duties completed like rites of atonement, they would all eat a silent breakfast together, and then the weary seaman would go out in their small boat to check the lobster traps and harvest their daily crops.  After finishing any remaining chores, Hannah and Muffy would shift from working together to playing together.  They would explore the island, less than a square mile in total area, checking to see if the sea had brought them anything interesting.  They would read books, snuggled together in Hannah’s bed.  They would draw pictures, or jump rope, or sing songs, or watch waves… They always did everything together.  Hanny and Muffy.  Muffy and Hannah.  And if, on a Monday or Friday, Father should return from his pilgrimage to the merchant’s market on the mainland with a cheery disposition, with a robust bone for Muffy, and with popped corn for himself and the little lady, then it would be the three of them curled up by the fireplace at night, watching the flames dance and fondly recalling stories from their happier days.

It was after one of these fireside evenings, just when they were feeling almost like a family again, when Hannah first noticed that something was wrong with Muffy.  She was sluggish.  Her abdomen was strangely distended.  And she had a look of quiet apology in her glassy brown eyes.  Hannah’s father said they should take it easy for a few days, keep an eye on her, see how things developed.  Unfortunately, her condition only deteriorated over the next several days, and Hannah knew that the situation must be very serious indeed when her father suggested that all three of them should go together to the merchant’s market that following Friday.  To the mainland.  To the land of thoroughfares crowded with pedestrians and automobiles.  To the land of medical professionals…

When the day came, it was with a sense of excitement and dread that Hannah packed her and Muffy’s things into the boat whose bow was pointed toward the mainland.  Father carried Muffy from the lighthouse, wrapped in a brown wool blanket, and set her gingerly into the boat.  Muffy raised her head slightly, as if to get her bearings, but quietly settled into the hull of the boat, listless and lethargic.  Father piloted the boat through calm waters, through a dim and dissipating layer of morning fog.  Within the hour, the shoreline of the mainland was visible -- but as soon as she saw it, Hannah wished she hadn’t.  She felt suddenly seasick, now that land was in sight.

Walking through the market, walking down Ocean Boulevard, walking into the waiting room of the veterinarian’s office… It was more like sleepwalking than conscious ambulation.  Like a huddle family of refugees, Father carried Muffy, Hannah carried the bags, and Muffy carried the hopes of a heartsick family.  Of course, the doctor told them what Hannah worst feared.  The mass growing in Muffy’s abdomen was most likely a tumor -- an unfortunately common consequence of the radical surgery that had saved the dog’s life so many years before.  They could do exploratory surgery to remove the mass and test the tissues… but it was basically pointless.  Muffy was an old lady, from a canine perspective, and her dignity was better maintained by allowing her a quiet, non-invasive, peaceful end to her days.  The doctor guessed two months, like he was guessing the number of peanuts in a jar at the county fair.  Walking out of the veterinarian’s office, Hannah was bawling, inconsolable, and her father was slack -- shuffling along Ocean Boulevard, through the market, down the length of the dock, and into the boat for the trip home.  The only sounds heard on the voyage back to their tiny island home were crushing sobs from the little girl and soft intermittent whimpers from pile of blankets on the bottom of the vessel -- either suffering herself, or doing her best to offer comfort and reassurance.

A week later, Hannah was sleeping in her bed, fitfully, uncomfortably, when a dream pulled her upright in bed.  In the dream, Muffy had been lying next to the wood-burning stove, her belly swollen to the size of a beach ball.  She lifted her head, looked at Hannah, and spoke in a soft, sweet voice:  “Don’t be afraid, Hannah.  Our dreams are coming true.  Our destiny is being fulfilled.  It’s happening.”  And then gently, softly, her body swelling even further and fuller, Muffy rose to the ceiling like a hot-air balloon.

Oddly enough, when Hannah awoke, she realized that Muffy was not there, at the foot of her bed, where she usually slept.  She was gone.  And with the bizarre images of her dream still filling her mind -- combined with the degree of lethargy which had characterized Muffy’s last couple of weeks, the dog’s presumably strenuously-induced exodus was worrisome.  Hannah rushed down the stairs to the ground floor of the lighthouse.  She half-expected to see Muffy hanging like a helium balloon in the far corner of the room.  However, what Hannah saw was quite to the contrary.  Muffy was not hanging from the ceiling; she was lying on the floor.  And instead of her body being further expanded, as it had been in Hannah’s dream, she looked smaller than she had in weeks.  And instead of speaking cryptic dreamy words of comfort to the little girl, Muffy was motherly licking one of 21 blindly wriggling puppies that surrounded her depleted body!

Puppies!  Puppies!  Hannah was screaming the word over and over, as if reveling in the culmination of a long-awaited Christmas wish.  Puppies!  Hannah rejoiced.  Muffy seemed to smile at Hannah with twinkling eyes.  And when Father tumbled down the stairs to decipher the commotion, he could do nothing but laugh -- a deep belly-laugh like he hadn’t laughed in years.