A volunteer had warned me that nobody seemed interested.
« People keep choosing the puppies, » she’d said. « Benny cries whenever someone walks away. »
I looked at the tiny, trembling dog in the kennel and understood him immediately.
I’d spent months learning how quiet a home could become after someone didn’t come back.
So I took Benny home.
Since then, he slept against my hip every night, followed my voice through the apartment, and complained whenever dinner was five minutes late.
« People keep choosing the puppies. »
He hadn’t fixed my grief.
He’d simply made sure I didn’t carry it alone.
After leaving the cemetery that afternoon, I stood too quickly beside my car.
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