Benny

Benny was my last boy. After Harry passed, the house went so quiet I couldn’t stand it. The days dragged on with just the ticking of the old clock and the sound of my own footsteps. I hadn’t planned on getting another dog. I was too old, I said. Didn’t want to go through the heartbreak again. But my neighbour’s granddaughter was fostering some pups from the shelter, and she brought Benny over one day just for “a visit.” He was just a pup then, not even house-trained, but he sat next to me on the couch like he’d always belonged there. That first night, he cried when I shut him out of the bedroom. So I let him in. After that, he never left my side. Benny had this way of looking at you—like he knew what kind of day you were having. If I was sad, he’d press up against my legs and sigh real heavy, like he understood. He didn’t bark much, just made this low little “woof” when someone was at the door or when he was ready for his dinner. At dinner he was there, ears up, tail wagging. In the end, it was his back legs. Just gave out one morning. I wrapped him in his favourite blanket and sat with him by the heater. I still call out his name sometimes by accident. I still wait for him to greet me when I come home from errands. Good boy, Benny. You were such a good boy. You made the last years of my life a little less lonely and a lot more full.