He was my first dog. We’d always been a cat household growing up, but after living with a family with two beautiful dogs during a working holiday in Canada in our mid-twenties, I made the decision: I wanted – no, needed - a dog in my life.
I found him on a website for abandoned Golden Retrievers. Rescues, as they were labelled. Just over one year old. And (in hindsight, inconceivably) given up by his first family. My wife Lara and I had only recently moved from the city to the Blue Mountains and our home had a spacious fenced yard and room for a big dog. I filled out the rescue agency’s questionnaire and waited. And after our place was checked and deemed suitable, we were told we could come and pick him up and take him home. His name was Bentley.
Although it wasn’t ideal, there was a comforting routine to the last four months of Bentley’s life. At fifteen and a half, he’d had a strong innings for a Golden Retriever but time had caught up to the old man. His arthritic hips would sometimes make it difficult to get up and down on his own, and we quickly became attuned to his movements so that we could assist. The medications helped a little, but walks were now contained to short trips to the end of our street, a few hundred metres or so.
Most days, when Lara and I were at home, Bentley’s routine would be something like this: wake up while we were having breakfast, poke his head out the door (or if he was really stiff, give a bark for us to come and help him). A quick morning wee outside. Camp underneath the breakfast counter stools, in case some toast scraps hit the floor. Lick the plates, an assist on the dishwashing. Move out to the lounge room, where Dad would invariably come and work from the couch. Midmorning, change positions and join Mum in the room adjoining her office. Soon after, a few barks to cajole a midmorning treat from Mum, then another wee and a sniff in the front yard. Then for the remainder of the day, alternating between the two rooms, sleeping long hours on towels laid out for the occasional accident. As a geriatric dog, the accidents had become more common, in part due to his discomfort with getting up and down. But they were (mostly) not a big deal. A few days a week we would take him for a walk to the end of the street, depending on his mood and energy. In the evening, he would stretch out in front of the fireplace until dinner time, which he would almost always wolf down with gusto. Then, it would be the agonising wait until he could have his favourite treat: a raw chicken wing. We would joke about his having a "wing addiction”, as he stared at us plaintively, waiting for the magic moment when I would head toward the fridge. Outside in the yard, he would savour his treat, and then with luck, do a final poop or wee before wobbling up his ramp and calling it a night. Inside, he would fall deeply asleep in front of the fire. Some nights we would wake him and move him to his bed beside ours, others I would leave him undisturbed and sleep on the couch in case he woke during the night needing help. And then the following day, we would do most of it over again. It was comforting. I considered it ‘extra time’ we’d been gifted.
Four months earlier he’d had a pancreatitis attack that had almost killed him. The vets nursed him through it, and although it was touch and go for a few days, he pulled through. We took every day after that as an opportunity to make him know how much he was loved. And I knew the clock was ticking, as it does for us all.
We had the opportunity to rename him after the adoption, but the name Bentley just seemed to fit. It had a regal hint, but also had the luxury car’s connotations of required care and attention. In the early days of our life together, Bentley was an anxious dog. I remember vividly our first car ride together, mostly because of how it ended. Due to extenuating circumstances I’d had to rent a car to use to pick him up and I had rigged a protective mat in the rear seat for him to lie on during the two-hour journey back to the mountains. The entire way home he leaned forward between the front seats, panting, clearly uneasy and slightly wary. Patting his head at every stoplight, I talked to him the entire journey home, promising him that we were going to give him the best life. As I pulled into our street, sixty seconds away from fresh air and green grass, Bentley leaned forward and vomited his breakfast all over the gear stick and handbrake of the rental car. It was a strong introduction to life as a fur parent.
While his anxiety remained present throughout his life, it thankfully dissipated over time. A big factor in this was our second adoption when Bentley was two; a boisterous, goofy one-year old Goldie originally named Prince (but who was quickly and aptly renamed Teddy). Their first few weeks together were chaotic and intense, especially for Lara who didn’t realise she had signed up for a daily canine Royal Rumble, but once the pack order was established (the order being: Adam, Bentley, Lara, Teddy), life with these two beautiful dogs was joyous. Teddy’s presence alleviated a lot of Bentley’s anxiety. They slept together, walked together, played together.
Lara and I were gifted more than ten years with the two of them, until prostate cancer took Teddy in 2018. I remember Bentley echoing our grief and sadness in his reaction to the quieter, emptier house after Teddy’s passing. We debated another adoption over the following years, but as Bentley’s lifestyle changed from mature dog to geriatric dog, we decided not to upset the apple cart by introducing a younger dog. We would just do our best to extend his life.
With each passing year, Bentley grew a little more frail, a little wobblier on his legs, a little more sleepy. But he was still a happy dog for the most part, with decent quality of life. He loved nothing more than simply being where we were.
A few weeks ago, I read up on euthanasia for dogs. I wanted to be wary of the right time, the right signs. I didn’t want to prolong his life simply for our benefit. On his last full day with us, he slipped out of his routine, but not in an alarming way. I was away, working in the city, but he spent the day sleeping mostly in the lounge room, at the foot of where I would normally sit and work. He had been sleeping a lot during the day, and Lara noted the slight change in routine, but didn’t want to disturb him. The following night, he gave us a small sign that something wasn’t quite right: after having his chicken wing, he barked on two more occasions the same signal to be let out, almost as though he’d completely forgotten what had happened only half an hour earlier. Later, he fell asleep in front of the fire, and I stayed with him there for the night.
When he woke in the early hours, I knew something was wrong. He was disoriented, clearly not himself. He found it difficult to stand even after I helped him to his feet. The decline over the following few hours was sharp, and the decision came quickly. Although I’d been cherishing all the extra time we’d been granted, it still felt too quick, too unexpected.
Later that morning at the vet clinic, I said goodbye to my best friend and helped him pass on. I hope to a place where he is reunited with his brother Teddy, and they are both running and playing together without the pain of illness or the weariness of age.
I wanted to say a thank you here to everyone who has reached out and expressed their love and support and shared their sadness for our loss over the last few days. So many of you knew how important both Bentley and Teddy were in our lives, and it’s been comforting receiving so many kind words and thoughtful acknowledgements of his passing.
It’s an obvious thing to say, but it’s worth saying: no person ever loves you the way your dog loves you, and no one has ever loved me more than Bentley did.
It’s the little things I will miss most: the soft hair on the back of his legs (we called them his boardshorts); our long and short walks together; kissing him on the brow at night before going to bed. They way he would lift his head when we returned home, and bark with elation. WIthout him here, the house feels cavernous and empty.
I did my best to live up to the promise I made to him on that first car trip. Fifteen great years together, filled with many happy memories. But still, I’m hurting, and I know some element of this sadness will stay with me forever.
Earlier this year, ESPN sports anchor Scott Van Pelt gave a remarkable tribute on his show to Otis, his dearly departed Rhodesian Ridgeback. One thing he said then resonated with me, and I want to quote it here: “If [the hurt of losing a dog] is the cost of the transaction for being on the receiving end of a mighty love that I got to know, then I pay it with enormous gratitude. Because even though I’m crying, I was just so happy he was ours and that we were his.”
As was I. Rest In Peace my wonderful boy. You will always be my first dog.
