The Best Boy
I want to tell you about the best boy I ever knew.
In December of 2013, a rescue group found a Rottweiler and a black lab traveling on the side of a Kentucky road. Both dogs found their way to Wisconsin, where the Rottie gave birth to eight healthy puppies on the first day of 2014.
It was around that time that Jess and I were thinking about getting a second dog. We had bought our house the previous year and were settled enough that a second dog wouldn’t seem insane. We were worried Molly didn’t have a companion on the days we were both out of the house working. I had always wanted a black male, either a lab or a Rottie. Jess (rightly) convinced me that our first dog should be a female Golden Retriever because they’re so intelligent, they could overcome our first-parent shortcomings. And she was right — Molly was so damn smart and helped us find our weaknesses by exploiting our ignorance with her combination of sass, stubbornness, and cuteness.
Unlike Molly, we got to choose our second dog from the litter. Molly was chosen for us by the breeder. Jess and I didn’t know how we were going to choose. They were all so adorable and crawling all over each other. How do you know which would be the best fit? What if we pick one, but they don’t like us? What if none of them pick us?
That all changed the minute we sat on the floor. Because one just walked up and sat in our laps.
Benedict Batman Jones, a.k.a Benny, a.k.a Monkey, a.k.a Jelly Bean, had found his people.
It’s hard to write about Benny and what he means to us. I tried doing this for Molly when she passed away from gallbladder cancer last year, and my words were a rambling mess. There were so many stories that I wanted to share to encapsulate what she meant to us, but it ended up being too many. For now, I’m leaving Molly’s memory as a shared history for Jess, myself, and those who knew her for her legendary 15.5 years, but not one written down. Maybe that’ll change one day.
But Benny. Benny was different. Benny needs to be recorded because there was not enough time to recognize his pure soul. He deserved so much better than what he got — a body full of an insidious cancer named hermangiosarcoma that spreads so quickly, many dogs don’t show signs until it’s too late to effectively treat. He deserved more than the three days we got to shower him with steak, ice cream, snuggling, and friends and family coming to see him to tell him how good of a boy he was. And we’re lucky compared to so many people whose dogs just died in front of them before a prognosis. That’s how quickly this fucking cancer works — on the Monday of his last week, I was making plans for him to come to schools as a therapy dog. Wednesday, our regular vet evaluated him and said his anemia was getting worse. Thursday, UW Vet Clinic said they found tumors in his spleen and liver. Monday, he joined his sister in heaven.
A lot of times, eulogies are written with a string of amazing stories that highlight how wonderful the person or animal was. Extraordinary tales of cuteness, sassiness, mischief, incomparable deeds, or records that’ll never be surpassed. Molly has those stories in spades. Benny does not.
It’s not that Benny just sat around and did nothing for nine years. He traveled across this country, seeing the Rockies, the Catskills, and the Appalachians. He swam in the Atlantic Ocean. He took a nap in Central Park. He provided therapy to hundreds of children and adults in Madison Metropolitan Public Schools. He was a popular guy at his doggie daycare. His nine years were full of activities and action.
But if there was any hinderance to his legend, it was how he never rarely strayed from being the best boy. Unlike Molly, he never drop a treat thrown to him, so he wasn’t as comical in that way.
He never was a problem on our walks. Molly was so stubborn, she would stop in the middle of a street spontaneously and lie down. Cleo and Bruce pull us in all sorts of directions whenever they see a squirrel, rabbit, another dog, or a bicycle. But Benny…Benny always walked in a straight line, either in front of us or next to us.
Benny always ate what was put in front of him. He had good pacing so he never threw it up (unlike Molly or Bruce). He ate right away (unlike Cleo). He never refused to eat, unlike Molly and Cleo who have I-want-to-see-your-manager energy if their bowl isn’t perfect. And he never tried to swipe food from his siblings or people around him (unlike Bruce). In fact, his only bad eating habit was that he ate his own poop, apparently a practice in accordance to his ancestors. He might beg or snuggle on your feet in case you forgot to give him a slice of bacon, but he never overplayed it.
Because of Benny’s black coat, size, and disproportionately large skull, he came off as intimidating. The first time I brought him to West High School, a group of students immediately thought he was a police dog and ran the other direction. But he was our gentlest guy. He barked at people coming to the door, but all our dogs do that. And he never barked for attention. He naturally tried to make himself smaller with smaller dogs or children to get closer to them. And when Cleo or Bruce tried his patience, he tried his best to be peacemaker. He’d walk away and towards us with a look that screamed, “You’re the parents. You deal with them.” The Dog Den staff told us that if other dogs were messing around with Cleo or Molly, Benny would walk in-between them and separate them from his sisters. We saw him do the same thing when Bruce was too rambunctious. In Molly’s final year, she moved pretty slowly — having arthritic knees and cancer will do that to you. So when we picked the dogs up from daycare, Cleo would bound out to us. But Benny — Benny would come out and look back, waiting for Molly. He refused to leave until he knew she was coming. Because what he did best, what he did better than anyone did anything in this world, was love.
Benny was love. All he did was love. It was like he only knew one thing and that was to love everything around him.
He loved food.
He loved the sun on his face.
He loved wearing silly hats.
He loved the snow.
He loved doing whatever Molly did.
He loved snuggling with people.
He loved the wind in his face.
He loved laying on his tummy and crossing his paws like a distinguished gentleman.
And he loved putting his head in your hand and leaning into it like an open-faced hug.
He just loved so much.
And you felt it. You never had to beg for it or offer him a treat. You didn’t have to trick him or order him. You just had to be there. And he would love you.
It’s been a month since he left us. In that time, Jess and I have laughed, cried, argued, and continued to live our lives with Cleo and Bruce. They’re also good dogs— in fact, they seemed to have picked up on our sadness and loss. They walk calmly. They jump and wreck stuff less. They don’t react to stimuli with abandon when we’re in public. It’s almost like the two know that their invisible older brother is keeping them in line. They didn’t really know Molly. She was pretty old and didn’t interact with them. But they knew Benny. And they loved him. I’m undoubtedly projecting here, but I want to believe that they feel as deeply about Benny as we do.
A couple weeks ago, Jess and I picked up Benny’s ashes. We’re going to his favorite parks and lakes to spread some of his essence. We’re going to the east and west coasts sometime this year to let him be with the waves. He loved the waves, like he loved everything else. And we’ll take the rest and put him near the fireplace, where he loved to curl up.
One day, when it feels right, we’ll get another dog. We’ll cry less. We’ll enjoy our time with Cleo, Bruce, and our future dogs. But we’ll never have another Benny. Like we’ll never have another Molly. But we hope his pure goodness will remain with us until we join him, Molly, and our loved ones.
