Chapter 7

The Last Day

11:11:11 p.m.

Brian's dog was uniquely beautiful. His coat glistened in the morning sun as he ran through the woods, never straying too far from the young man who accompanied him. Their special relationship was obvious, as they seemed to communicate intimately by body language and eye contact. Their bond was a thing of loveliness.

In private words, the young man encouraged his K-9 companion, and the dog responded by doing everything in his power to obey. Others walking along the wooded trail marveled at the sheer joy the two took in one another's company. Folks stopped and stared, wishing it was they who were so loving and beloved.

At one point the man and dog stopped, flopping down side-by-side in the green grass to catch their breath. Even then, the man didn't take his eyes or hands off the collie. Straining to hear, you might have heard him whisper the dog's name, Benjamin, as a hymn and not just as a word.

"I love you. I love you. I love you, my little friend," the words softly sang. "Thank you, God, for my buddy."

The buzzing alarm awoke the man, and the memory of that beautiful morning faded, leaving him empty with loneliness. The apartment, still in the late evening, felt as vacant as his heart. The minutes ticked slowly on his bedside clock, reminding him of his hunger. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of vehicle traffic, hushed and oddly quiet. He realized it must have been snowing, which always quieted traffic noise.

He looked around the room, taking inventory of his earthly belongings. Because he had always lived alone, he had never needed much. Now in his middle age, he felt a vagrant wistfulness about the things he'd never owned, the places he'd never gone, the people he'd never known, and the things he'd never done.

The dream had left him shaken, and he tried to leave it in his bed, choosing to get up quickly instead of lingering in the warmth. The one companion he'd really loved had been that dog; when he had died, a lot of Brian had died with him. The pain of losing him was still palpable, as it had been when he had carried his one true friend to their special spot in the woods, wrapped up in his favorite blanket, and buried him near the field where they'd so often played.

The separation had never gotten any easier. After twenty-three years, Brian still flinched sometimes when he thought he saw Benjamin running around a corner. Those false sightings came more often lately, but Brian didn't mind. Benjamin was one memory that gave him pleasure instead of disappointment, sorrow, or hurt.

The rumble in his stomach reminded Brian again of his hunger, so he hurried through the process of dressing for bad weather and quickly left for the diner. As he headed out the door, his gaze locked on the Polaroid photo of him and Benjamin on the kitchen floor when he was nineteen years old.

He remembered how Benjamin had loved to sit on his feet, as if he were keeping Brian warm (or holding him in place), whenever others were around. Benjamin had seemed to take protecting his master very seriously, as more than one person had discovered when a voice was too loud or actions were too abrupt. Benjamin would growl, deep in his throat, and the offending person would pursue another agenda without a second request.

Brian smiled sadly and brushed his calloused finger across Benjamin's picture, gently thanking him one more time for the years they had spent together.