Mari (Parody)

I understand why you feel that way. But after six months with Benny, it wasn’t a decision I could make lightly. I wanted to think about what was best for everyone, especially the boy.

I offered to call the shelter with her. We sat on a bench while Benny alternated between drinking from his bowl and trying to climb into her lap. The shelter confirmed the date he was surrendered. A man had signed the form saying he was the owner. The woman stared at the ground. She didn't ask me to hand over the leash. Instead, she asked whether her son could see him once. I wanted to say yes immediately. Then I thought about a child seeing his dog for an hour and having to say goodbye again. I asked how old he was. "Ten." I told her I needed a day to think. At home, Benny ate dinner and fell asleep with his head on my foot. Nothing about his day had changed. I barely slept. The next morning, I called her. I said we could meet on Sunday, but we needed to talk to her son beforehand about what he expected. She agreed. On Sunday, the boy arrived carrying a tennis ball with its fuzz worn almost smooth. Benny recognized the ball before he seemed to recognize the boy. He grabbed it and backed up, waiting for a throw. The boy laughed. Then he wiped his face with his sleeve. We stayed for nearly an hour. Before leaving, his mother asked if she could send me some pictures from when Benny was a puppy. I said I'd like that. That evening, the first one arrived. It was Benny asleep inside the boy's green sweatshirt.

The woman at the dog park called my dog "Milo," and he ran straight to her. His name is Benny. At least that's the name on the paperwork I signed when I adopted him six months ago. She knelt in the gravel, and he pressed his whole body against her. For a moment she didn't seem to notice me. Then she looked at his collar. "Where did you get him?" I told her which shelter. She asked when. When I said April, she sat back on her heels. She showed me a photograph on her phone. Same white patch over one eye. Same crooked front tooth. A boy in a green sweatshirt had his arm around him. "That's my son's dog," she said. I didn't know what to say. She explained that she'd been in the hospital after a car accident. Her brother had taken Milo while she recovered. He told her the dog had gone to live with friends in another state. When she got home, she asked for the address. He kept putting her off. The shelter had told me Benny was surrendered because his owner could no longer care for him. She asked if I still had the adoption papers. I said yes. Then she said, very quietly, "My son still asks about him."