A message for Benny
It's been six days since the day I think of as "the terrible, horrible, VERY BAD day" I had gotten off work and come home from my 13 hours in the ER, my husband said our dog was missing and went to look for him, and within a few minutes had brought him home dead.
Our dog was eight years old, and he was a golden retriever. His name was Benny. It's funny how you can tell people these basic facts and can't possibly describe exactly who your dog was or what he meant to you. He was loving, funny, sweet, and had more expression in his big brown eyes than any dog on the planet. He was a Christmas present for my son when he was ten, but he was the family pet as well; he really couldn't have been more a part of the family. We moved from Hannibal to Wisconson to East Brainerd to Red Bank and to Ooltewah and Benny was always with us, through all the changes. My parents got sick and died and my heart was broken, but when I came home, Benny was always there when I was up late and everyone was sleeping. You could always cry on his fur and tell him exactly what you were thinking.
We knew he was getting older; he was a big dog and those breeds don't live long, but he even seemed old for eight; his face was white and he had developed arthritis; he didn't move around nearly as well as he used to, and watching him try to climb up things he used to jump up on easily was painful. We're all glad he will be spared more pain and suffering of growing older; especially since dogs can't tell you they're hurting. There's no words, though, to say how much he meant to us, or how much we will miss him; I had no idea how bad it would hurt until I was sitting on the grass by his body, wrapped in my favorite Cubs blanket; I felt like my heart was torn to pieces; it was unbelievable. It still seems rather like a very bad dream, and I'm still kind of hoping I'll wake up. I keep looking for him in all his favorite spots; or when I drive up in the driveway; I can't believe he's gone. No one you love and lose ever lives long enough; dogs' lives seem painfully short. We had Benny, however, through the most difficult years of our lives; our kids are both adults now, and I know this was his time to go.
I felt this peace even when I was crying hysterically, that Benny was happy, that he was in heaven and my Dad was saying to me, "It's okay, sweetheart. You know I'll watch after old Benny." Daddy always loved Benny and any dog. I like to think of him with my childhood dog Frisky and my dad, going for walks in heavenly woods and fishing; and he's young and agile and happy as he tears across beautiful fields, full of joy.
The hardest part was watching my 18-year-old son mourn his dog, who was his best friend- no dog ever had a better boy, that's for sure. These two had slept together, gone running together, played together, and loved each other desperately. My son, who is quite too grown up and manly to cry anymore, cried terribly over his dog's body, and that was the worst part of all. My daughter, who tends to keep her feelings private and is 23, clung to me and we cried together when we first heard the news; my husband kept it all stoic, he said, until he had to put the dog up on the vet's table (we had him cremated)
This is a sad post, but I wanted to post something for my Benny; I figured a message without explanation would be kind of stupid, even though I don't think anyone actually reads this blog.
Anyway Benny, here's your letter; I hope my Dad can get on-line in heaven and read it to you.
Dear Benny-
You were the best and sweetest dog any family could ever have. I don't think we could have loved you more, and I hope we always showed it. I know you're better off now, but we have such a hole in our hearts, and will for such a long time. Our house will never be the same, and our family won't either, for you were part of it. It almost seems fitting that you left me the year my kids are leaving as well; it's like you knew, and you were really for them- especially Nick- but I lost my heart to you too.
I wish I could give you a wonderful memorial service or do something in your memory, but I don't know what, and it could never be good enough. When Steve picked you up on the side of the road, he looked up and saw a rainbow; that meant a lot to me, because my Mom always taught us "A rainbow is God's way of saying everything is going to be all right." (as in the story about Noah) When I was driving home from work the next night and crying so much I could hardly see; "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" came on the radio- something I haven't heard in probably twenty or thirty years. Coincidence? I don't think so.
I so want you here, but I can't be selfish; it brings back the old hurts, that still aren't old- Mom and Dad- when you know they're better off, but you so desperately feel like you aren't.
I hope this year will go better than it started!
I love you Benny and I couldn't ever tell you how much. I knew you were incredibly important to our family, but I didn't know how much until you were gone. Please know you are forever in our hearts and minds and memories, and I'll never forget my best dog.
Love,
Momma
Our dog was eight years old, and he was a golden retriever. His name was Benny. It's funny how you can tell people these basic facts and can't possibly describe exactly who your dog was or what he meant to you. He was loving, funny, sweet, and had more expression in his big brown eyes than any dog on the planet. He was a Christmas present for my son when he was ten, but he was the family pet as well; he really couldn't have been more a part of the family. We moved from Hannibal to Wisconson to East Brainerd to Red Bank and to Ooltewah and Benny was always with us, through all the changes. My parents got sick and died and my heart was broken, but when I came home, Benny was always there when I was up late and everyone was sleeping. You could always cry on his fur and tell him exactly what you were thinking.
We knew he was getting older; he was a big dog and those breeds don't live long, but he even seemed old for eight; his face was white and he had developed arthritis; he didn't move around nearly as well as he used to, and watching him try to climb up things he used to jump up on easily was painful. We're all glad he will be spared more pain and suffering of growing older; especially since dogs can't tell you they're hurting. There's no words, though, to say how much he meant to us, or how much we will miss him; I had no idea how bad it would hurt until I was sitting on the grass by his body, wrapped in my favorite Cubs blanket; I felt like my heart was torn to pieces; it was unbelievable. It still seems rather like a very bad dream, and I'm still kind of hoping I'll wake up. I keep looking for him in all his favorite spots; or when I drive up in the driveway; I can't believe he's gone. No one you love and lose ever lives long enough; dogs' lives seem painfully short. We had Benny, however, through the most difficult years of our lives; our kids are both adults now, and I know this was his time to go.
I felt this peace even when I was crying hysterically, that Benny was happy, that he was in heaven and my Dad was saying to me, "It's okay, sweetheart. You know I'll watch after old Benny." Daddy always loved Benny and any dog. I like to think of him with my childhood dog Frisky and my dad, going for walks in heavenly woods and fishing; and he's young and agile and happy as he tears across beautiful fields, full of joy.
The hardest part was watching my 18-year-old son mourn his dog, who was his best friend- no dog ever had a better boy, that's for sure. These two had slept together, gone running together, played together, and loved each other desperately. My son, who is quite too grown up and manly to cry anymore, cried terribly over his dog's body, and that was the worst part of all. My daughter, who tends to keep her feelings private and is 23, clung to me and we cried together when we first heard the news; my husband kept it all stoic, he said, until he had to put the dog up on the vet's table (we had him cremated)
This is a sad post, but I wanted to post something for my Benny; I figured a message without explanation would be kind of stupid, even though I don't think anyone actually reads this blog.
Anyway Benny, here's your letter; I hope my Dad can get on-line in heaven and read it to you.
Dear Benny-
You were the best and sweetest dog any family could ever have. I don't think we could have loved you more, and I hope we always showed it. I know you're better off now, but we have such a hole in our hearts, and will for such a long time. Our house will never be the same, and our family won't either, for you were part of it. It almost seems fitting that you left me the year my kids are leaving as well; it's like you knew, and you were really for them- especially Nick- but I lost my heart to you too.
I wish I could give you a wonderful memorial service or do something in your memory, but I don't know what, and it could never be good enough. When Steve picked you up on the side of the road, he looked up and saw a rainbow; that meant a lot to me, because my Mom always taught us "A rainbow is God's way of saying everything is going to be all right." (as in the story about Noah) When I was driving home from work the next night and crying so much I could hardly see; "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" came on the radio- something I haven't heard in probably twenty or thirty years. Coincidence? I don't think so.
I so want you here, but I can't be selfish; it brings back the old hurts, that still aren't old- Mom and Dad- when you know they're better off, but you so desperately feel like you aren't.
I hope this year will go better than it started!
I love you Benny and I couldn't ever tell you how much. I knew you were incredibly important to our family, but I didn't know how much until you were gone. Please know you are forever in our hearts and minds and memories, and I'll never forget my best dog.
Love,
Momma
Labels: loss of dog
posted by cherigrace | 6:00 AM
1 Comments:
I understand how you feel. We love our Bean dog too. He's 12! Still gets around pretty good. He;s a little hard of listening, like daddy used to be. He hears what he wants to. cyndi
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