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.
