A friend like Ben

“What’s HE doing here?”

“He lives here.”

“Mm!”

He sat quietly by the back door, like he had on so many afternoons. She’d been letting him in for the better part of two years and it was just her little secret. By mid afternoon she’d see him out there, sometimes looking cold, sometimes he looked as lonely as she felt, so she’d let him in. He was well mannered, stayed quiet, and when he could hear the distinctive rattle of the his old lady’s car as it drove up the hill, he’d get up, letting her know it was time to go.

But not this day. This day he came bounding down the hill and she already had the door open. He came in, sat down, and never left. We all came home from school and noticed him sitting there, unable to break his habit of sitting in the usual spot.

“Why is he in here?”

“He lives with us now.”

We showed much more excitement about this than our dad did. We liked him and would offer him food, play with him, go on walks with him and generally maul him like children do to any unfortunate, gentle natured creature. We all did our best to curry his highest favor, but I look back through these photos and there is no mistaking it. Benji was always Mom’s dog.

He gravitated toward sitting next to her. Even at meal times, when the rest of us would happily drop him some lima beans or bits of hot dog, he’d park by her feet. When he got up to investigate she knew we were feeding the dog at the table and yell at us. I see him next to her as she poses in a pair of shorts and remember that this fluffy little mutt was her “white shadow”. Up the hill with the laundry, room to room with the cleaning, whining at her door in the morning when it was time for her to get up, parking himself next to the couch when she sat down to watch the news and accidentally fell asleep (which happened often) and growling when anyone came near her, he had picked her. Mom was alpha.

El would grab him and pick him up insisting “he’s my dog!”
Rocco would grab him into his room at night and insist he sleep at the foot of his bed: “he’s my dog!”
Alice and Rita had the sense to not get into that game. Although Rita did use him in a photo project for the fair that went on to earn a blue ribbon at the state level. She took pictures of him after he rolled in manure (and suffered a subsequent bathing) and wrote a narrative verse that went with it. Very cute.
I used to eat lunch with him, sharing generously the bits of sandwich mom had left for me to eat. We all wanted to think we had a special talent for talking to the animals, I guess. We all just wanted to be the most special to someone and a dog is the easiest, most transparent source of such a thing being possible. But that’s where our first lesson in affection fell through. You don’t force it, you don’t earn it, it’s given. It’s like the futility of going out and looking for a lover and forgetting to grow that love in your own heart.

In 1980 we all sat out in the back yard under a canopy of trees enjoying a cookout and toasting marshmallows. Must have been a bit chilly, we’re all in sweaters despite the season. We’re on the ground, circled around the hibachi and holding sticks with toastables over the embers.

I look around the circle of us and, well, just let myself react. I still look like a kid, with my hair done up in the loop that mom would use to keep the long locks out of my face (and whatever cruddy thing I was playing in). Rocco is wearing plaid pants and for the first time I see his overbite. Rita is only, maybe 13, but she looks absolutely beautiful with the wind going through her hair. Alice had learned not to smile because of her front teeth. After about 13 she started looking serious in pictures to hide them. El, well she just looks like El, big smile and big boobs.

And there’s mom. She’s sitting there comfortably. I look at her feet and notice that her bones aren’t poking holes in her shoes. Her hands look worked but not warped as they do now. And propped up right next to her close, turning to give his best smile to the camera, is Benji.

In the background is the wood pile that would, 8 years later, be the spot where we would bury him. He went out for his constitutional one winter morning like he always did. Sure he was aging. But like any old codger he wouldn’t give up those things he always did. He got turned around in the snow, ended up in the road, and the rest he’ll fill me in on when I see him again, I guess. Mom stood at the back door calling and calling for him, making herself late for work. Finally she had to go. We were home from school for Martin Luther King day (a new holiday back then). A few minutes after leaving she was back. I hadn’t left my room yet but could hear it her voice. She found him, pulled the furry body with purpling flesh into her car, never minding any mess, brought him home and sat him by the back door.