That afternoon, I took flowers to the cemetery.
My fourteen-year-old Chihuahua, Benny, came with me.
Benny is blind, mostly toothless, and walks with the slow, determined dignity of an elderly gentleman who refuses to acknowledge his age.
I placed the flowers beside Frank’s headstone while Benny stood pressed against my shoe.
“Leave those alone,” I warned.
He immediately leaned toward them.
I sighed.
“Frank would’ve loved you.”
Benny’s tail tapped softly against my ankle.
“He would’ve fed you bacon when I wasn’t looking. Then when the vet complained about your weight, he would’ve blamed me.”
Benny wagged harder.
I smiled.
Eight months earlier, I had gone to a shelter intending only to look.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
A volunteer introduced me to Benny.
“He’s been here a long time,” she explained. “Most people want younger dogs.”
Benny had been curled in the back of his kennel.
“When someone walks away from him, he cries,” she added.
That sentence was enough.
I knew something about people walking away.
After Frank died, the house became painfully quiet.
Not peaceful.
Empty.
There is a difference.
You notice every clock.
Every pipe.
Every floorboard.
You begin talking to yourself simply because nobody else is there to answer.
Benny didn’t erase that loneliness.
He simply made it less heavy.
He slept beside me.
Followed the sound of my footsteps.
Barked indignantly if dinner was late.
And reminded me that another living creature was waiting for me to get out of bed each morning.
That afternoon at the cemetery, he leaned against my ankle while I spoke to Frank.
Eventually, I stood.
Too fast.
