Member-only story
One Last Run Towards Heaven
Remembering our family pup the night before he dies
I’m sitting on our back patio this afternoon, watching our 17-year-old puppy, Benny, make slow, difficult laps around our dining table. Tears stream down my cheeks.
“What type of dog is he?”
This question has been asked a thousand times in his life, across four different continents, and in just as many languages. Everyone in the world is pleasantly perplexed by Benny’s stumpy frame, jet black coat, and head two sizes too large for his body.
“He’s a Basset-Newfoundland mix,” we reply amusedly; the proud parents of a one-of-a-kind love puppy.
“He looks so young,” is another phrase we’ve heard often, especially anytime his coat is trimmed short.
Today though, it’s impossible to look at Benny and see anything but the signs of old age taking over.
He walks at the pace of a snail and sways so badly that he’d instantly fail any field sobriety test. He also poops and pees uncontrollably, adding a sense of adventure to any late-night barefoot stroll around the house.
