My Three Boys

There were three.
Carson, the black lab.
Kaiser, the Rottweiler.
And Bentley, the yellow lab.
All rescued. All loved. All mine.

When they all lived with me, I was still in New York. The house was full of life. Every time I walked through the door, they ran to me—tails wagging, bodies jumping, hearts wide open. Kaiser would come into my office and rest his giant head on my shoulder. His head was bigger than mine. I called them my puppies, even when they grew old. They were never just dogs. They were my joy.

Carson was the first. He died the same day my brother died. We had just come home from the hospital, trying to figure out funeral plans. I went to hug Carson—he came to me, leaned in, then walked away. Meredith, my daughter, asked where he was. I said, “In the dining room.” She came back and said, “Daddy… he’s dead.” He had come to say goodbye. I’ll never forget that. One heartbreak on top of another.

Then it was Kaiser. Kaiser was strong, sometimes too rough with Bentley. I had to step in. One day Meredith took Kaiser to her house. Weeks later, she called. Kaiser couldn’t walk. The vet said it was cancer. No cure. Meredith cried. We let him go. Kaiser joined Carson.

And then there was one.

By then, I had moved to Florida. Bentley stayed in New York with my wife and Meredith. I flew back and forth to see him. On my last visit, just two weeks ago, he moved slowly. There was a tumor on his side. I said goodbye, hoping it wasn’t the last time.

Not long after I left, my wife hosted a gathering at the house. Bentley was there, surrounded by people who loved him. He greeted everyone, gave kisses, soaked up the attention. No one knew it would be his last party.

A few days later, my wife took him to the vet. He seemed okay.

Two days after that, Meredith called me, crying. Bentley wasn’t eating. He wasn’t moving. A vet came to the house. He was suffering.

When my wife had to break the news to her friends, they were stunned. Saddened. Just days earlier, they had been with Bentley—laughing, petting him, feeling his warmth. Everyone loved Bentley.

It was time.

Now he’s gone. No more pain. He’s with his brothers.

But I’m still here. And the house is quiet.

I had always hoped to bring Bentley to Florida. That dream is gone. I think about him every day. How he’d come into my room in the morning and drop my slippers on my head. If I didn’t get up, he’d jump on the bed. He made me laugh. He made me feel loved.

Now he’s gone. And I feel empty.

But I remind myself: he was loved. He was safe. He was happy. And now he’s running free with Carson and Kaiser.

Thank you, Bentley.
Thank you, Kaiser.
Thank you, Carson.

You gave me everything.
You will always be in my heart.

My dogs Carson, Kaiser, and Bentley.