Molly was a good dog.  She had been my jogging companion back when I would sojourn home from college.  She would eagerly grab the leash and deposit it hopefully in front of my jogging shoes, and off we would go, bounding down North Main Street on our way to Highland Avenue and, beyond that, the cemetery where I would do push ups and she would sniff around the gravestones.
Her leash sits in my office now.
I have an office, and it is filled with books and memories I sometimes find it hard to believe I -- a graying man -- made.