I swore I’d never become one of those columnists who wrote about their pets. I didn’t want to be the one who turned dog stories into bestselling books or tear-jerker movies. But here I am, writing this not because I need the world to see it, but because I’m overwhelmed by the kindness of friends and strangers. And in this moment, I’m reminded that through the animals we love, we often find the best of humanity.
Benny was a good dog.
He was a gangly mutt, a mixed breed known as a “red Alabama black mouth cur.” He wasn’t a show dog or one to follow commands just for the sake of it. But he had the softest fur and ears like velvet, and he could run like the wind. He was happiest when he was running, and I was happiest watching him. There’s a unique joy in seeing a creature fully embrace freedom and wild abandon.
When we first adopted Benny from the Humane Society over a decade ago, I thought he was a little dim-witted. He didn’t aspire to be the leader of the pack or to fetch. But over time, Benny showed me just how clever he was. He didn’t need to be the alpha; he had his own way of getting what he wanted. With his eyes, he could make things happen. Whether it was getting treats, a walk, or a trip out back for his canine companions, Benny had a way of making his masters move. His eyes—those big brown eyes—would look mournful, hopeful, happy, or grateful, depending on what he wanted. Some might call it manipulation, but I came to realize he was smarter than all of us.
In his later years, Benny faced tough challenges. He was diagnosed with dog dementia and would bark at furniture as if it were an intruder. His hips gave out, and he struggled to walk. But no matter what, Benny remained his cheerful, endearing self. We decided we’d care for him as long as he was happy.
But things took a turn for the worse. On Sunday, Benny didn’t want his usual treats, which was a red flag. On Monday, he could no longer stand. We made an appointment with the vet, knowing the time had come. But Benny, in his quiet wisdom, made the decision for us. As we sat with him at the vet, he stopped breathing before the doctor arrived. He was with us, and then he wasn’t.
That was Benny’s final gift to us—he took the decision out of our hands, sparing us the difficulty of choosing. I will always think of his big brown eyes, and it makes me misty-eyed. But I also think of him running, wild and free, and it makes me smile through the tears.