Benny was part of my family, my companion, and in many ways my furry soulmate. He was one of the great loves of my life.
To people who did not know him, Benny may have looked like a sweet, handsome dog. But to those of us who lived with him, Benny was so much more than that. He was part of the emotional center of our home. He had routines, relationships, opinions, humor, tenderness, and a way of making everyone around him feel seen.
Benny checked on people throughout the day, almost as if he felt responsible for making sure everyone was okay. He would move through the house with quiet purpose, stopping in on the people he loved. He and I often had silent conversations just by looking into each other’s eyes. There was understanding there. Not a trick, not projection, but the kind of bond that grows from years of trust, closeness, and daily life shared together.
He was gentle in a way that felt almost deliberate. When he played with smaller dogs, he would lie down so they could play with him more easily. If another dog became too aggressive with a more vulnerable dog, Benny noticed. If a person became aggressive toward another person, Benny noticed that too. He had an instinct to stand near those who were being targeted or overwhelmed. He was not aggressive by nature. He was protective because he cared.
Benny was also funny, playful, and full of personality. When I came home, he would wait at the door, tap his little paws, and run to get his ball so we could play. He loved bringing me his ball and then keeping it just out of reach so I would chase him. When he evaded me, he did this little prance, as if he knew exactly how charming he was. He loved fetch, swimming, the dog park, chasing balls down the stairs, and running after squirrels in the yard. Even then, I do not believe he would have hurt one. He loved the chase, not the harm.
He had a whole language of little rituals. He had the sweetest way of asking to go outside, resting his head on the couch, making eye contact, and asking in his soft voice. When DoorDash was arriving, I would say, “The white wizard approaches,” and Benny knew exactly what that meant. He would run to the couch and look out the window. When the food came inside, I would let him smell the bag so he felt included. Sometimes he would give the outside of the bag one quick little lick, like he had performed his official inspection.
He was grateful for everything he was given. Every toy mattered to him. He cherished them, carried them, played with them, and fully embraced them as if each one were special. His piggy from Grandma, his balls, his bones, his blankets — they were part of his world, and he loved them because they came from the people who loved him.
Benny brought joy into ordinary life. He made the house feel alive. He sat close, slept near me, rested beside me while I worked, and waited patiently for the next walk, the next game, the next trip outside, or the next visit to the dog park. He was not just present in our home. He helped make it home.
Benny passed suddenly and traumatically from advanced malignant liver disease. We lost him far too fast. In the middle of that heartbreak, genetic preservation gave me a way to keep open a meaningful connection to him without pretending that Benny could ever be replaced.
I chose genetic preservation because Benny’s life mattered profoundly. I do not see this as recreating him or bringing him back. Benny was singular. He had his own memories, habits, soul, and bond with us. But preserving his cells gives me the possibility, someday, of welcoming a new puppy who would be Benny’s genetic twin sibling: a new life deeply connected to him, but still their own being.
My experience with Viagen brought me real hope during one of the most painful periods of my life. Benny’s samples were collected under difficult circumstances, and I did not know whether preservation would be possible. When I learned that his cell culture had been successfully completed, I was overwhelmed with relief, gratitude, and hope. It meant that a part of Benny had been preserved, and that meant more to me than I can easily put into words.
To me, genetic preservation is not about denying grief. It is about honoring love. Benny is gone, and nothing changes that. But a part of him was saved, and that gives me comfort. It gives me time. It gives me a future possibility connected to a family member I loved deeply and will always miss.
Benny was joy, gentleness, mischief, comfort, protection, gratitude, and home. He was deeply loved by me and by everyone whose life he touched. I hope that by sharing his story, others can understand that Benny was not simply an animal we cared for. He was a beloved member of our family, a soul who gave love freely, and a presence whose absence has changed the shape of our world.
