This is an opinion column.
Note: I swore I’d never become one of those columnists who wrote about their pets. Not even one of those who turned dog stories into best sellers, into movies that made people cry and pay money. Or cry because they’d paid money.
I did not intend to write this for publication. I wrote it because I always write obits for the ones I love. It is how I hope to honor them. It is how I work through grief. It is therapy.
I decided to publish this not because I need the world to see it, and not because I think the world needs it. I write because I am overwhelmed in this moment by friends and strangers who have shown me kindness. I am struck that it is through the animals we love that we so often see humanity in each other.
So I will let Benny, as ever, serve as my ambassador.
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Benny was a good dog.
He was a gangly mutt, a pseudo-breed called “red Alabama black mouth cur,” which sounded about right.
He was a shelter dog with ears like velvet and the softest fur I’ve ever felt in a dog. He could run like the wind and was happiest when he did. I was happiest watching him run, too, because there’s a joy that comes from watching a creature commit fully to freedom and wild abandon.
There is joy in seeing joy.
Benny was a funny dog. He never aspired to be leader of the pack. He never really wanted to fetch or roll over for pats on the head. He’d shake hands in social situations, but he didn’t seem to feel any pride about it.
To be honest, I thought Benny was a little dim-witted when my daughter Mamie picked him out at the Humane Society a decade and a half ago. But over time he proved me wrong. He lived life exactly as he wanted to live it, and got away with it until the end. He may not have been the alpha dog, but he was the dog who could make all things happen. He was the one who took matters into his own paws, the one who could make his masters move, who could acquire treats or walks or trips out back for his canine brother and sister.
Benny’s gift was in his face, and his eyes. He could look mournful and hopeful at the same time, if it served him. He could look happy and grateful, too. And while some might call him manipulative, he was completely transparent about his intentions. He wanted treats. He wanted walks. He wanted treats again. I came to think he was smarter than all of us.
Benny went through tough times in recent months. He was diagnosed with dog dementia, and he’d bark at the furniture as if it were breaking and entering. His hips began to go and he couldn’t squat or raise a leg to pee. So he’d walk along, smiling that dumb smile and peeing in a loopy line for 40 feet at a time.
But of course it all got worse.
My wife, Alecia, and I figured as long as he was happy we could deal with the rest. We’d asked the vet how we’d know when it was time to say goodbye. Dr. Lamb kept an eye on him, and assured us we’d know when it was time. And we did.
Benny did not want treats Sunday, which was a first. On Monday he could not stand. We made an appointment and took him to the vet. We knew it was time. But it is always hard to make the decision to end the life of a creature you love.
I carried Benny into the vet’s office, and the ever-kind Cory put him on the table. We waited there just a few moments for Dr. Lamb to come in. Benny looked at us, Alecia and me, and he stopped breathing before the doctor came in. He was with us, and then he was not.
It was time. Benny knew it was time. I think of that moment now as a final gift. He took the decision out of our hands. He made things happen, for the peace and comfort of his pack.
I think of those big brown eyes and it makes me misty, for now. But I think of Benny running, with all that ecstatic abandon, and it makes me smile through it all.
Benny was a good dog.
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Note: People are exceedingly kind when they know you have lost a pet because they know what it is like. They feel the pain that, I think, stirs their own humanity. Benny did it for me. Again. He reminded me that we all have a lot more in common than we think. If we bother to look.
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John Archibald is a Pulitzer winner and dog lover for AL.com.
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