Bentley is Gone …
My travel buddy for almost sixteen years
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I stared with disbelief and held my breath as Bentley suddenly opened his mouth and gasped for air. His head moved, then another gasp, and another one. I screamed his name, and the veterinarian came running in.
“He is alive, he is moving, the doctor was wrong when he said he had died, as his heart was not beating anymore — he is not dead! Help him!”
She patiently explained to me for the second time that these gasps would happen: “Once the pressure in the lungs relaxed, he will exhale his final breaths”.
I barely remembered she said it to me five minutes ago, a warning of what would happen.
The vet had given Bentley oxygen and pain medication, but it was already too late to bring him back to life. When I saw him gasping, I hoped a wonder had occurred, and his heart was beating again.
I stroked his back, his head, his chest, and his legs tenderly for a long time. I gave him a gentle kiss on his head and told him how much I loved him, how many wonderful years we had together, and how much I enjoyed his company when we traveled together all over North America for so many years.
Maybe he could still hear me? Hearing is the last of the senses that people and animals lose when they die.
In that moment, I wished I could go with him…
I wouldn’t have minded at all. What happened with his soul? Will Bentley become an angel? Will he wander the endless meadows in heaven? Will we meet there again one day, walking together as we had done for so many years?
I could not even cry. I must have looked stone-faced when another vet came into the hospital surgery room. He explained that cancer in the spine had spread to Bentley’s brain and shut down the bodily functions. Then the vet talked about cremation and mentioned what services they could offer me.
I thanked him, not wanting to hear any of his money-making suggestions aside from the cremation, and almost ran out of the clinic. I had no other option than to agree to the cremation, as I was hundreds of miles from the place I could bury Bentley. To drive there with his dead body in the 110-degree August heat was not an option. It hadn’t rained for weeks, and shovelling concrete-like soil two or three feet deep was impossible for me.
When I returned to my car, it was still open, the hatchback up, and I saw all the towels and Bentley’s blankets, which were wet. A dog owner who had lost his pet told me once that the muscles lose the ability to function in the last moments, and the animal loses its water. I threw the wet blankets and towels into the clinic’s garbage container, started the car, and drove back to the hotel, devastated and numb, still acting like a machine, and feeling a total emptiness.
I knew for years this day would come. In descriptions about the Beauceron dog breed, it said they would live ten, a maximum of twelve years. Bentley proved them wrong — in two weeks, he would have been sixteen! One would think I should have been prepared, but his death still came too suddenly for me.
The day before Bentley passed away, we had a lovely picnic under huge maple trees on the shores of Lake Ontario, just five minutes from the hotel that I had booked for a few days.
Bentley and I walked several times on that Saturday. He enjoyed these walks and seemed perfectly fine—until Sunday early morning, when he did not get up and would not eat his morning treat: a small piece of cheese. It was his daily ritual — but not this morning.
I brought him water. He would not drink either and did not move. It dawned on me that something was wrong with him, and I searched on my laptop for the closest vet clinic.
I rushed down to the reception and asked for a luggage trolley. Two hotel staffers came to my room and helped to place Bentley on it. I was nervous because he usually did not want to be touched by strangers, and I expected a struggle, but he was limp. They helped me lift him into my car, and I drove to a nearby veterinary clinic — not knowing that this was our last journey together.
Minutes later, he would be dead of old age and also due to the spine cancer that had crept into his brain, shutting down all his body functions, and brought on heart failure, as I understood it from the veterinarian’s explanations.
Bentley was such a brave and devoted animal! He never showed the slightest signs of pain; he liked to walk a lot, and his yearly check-ups were also excellent. He seemed happy, always excited to explore new places with me.
Three days earlier, I was sitting in a chair, reading a book, when he suddenly got up from his bed, came over to me, and lay his head on my leg, looking me in the eyes. I was surprised and assumed he wanted to be petted. As I did this frequently, I wondered why he asked me to do it. I stroked him and praised him and felt he wanted to stay close to me. It was such a moving moment.
Every time I returned to my car after he died, I got a punch in my stomach when I saw Bentley’s place empty. The smell of his cushions, some stray hairs, a cookie on the floor — all these things were painful reminders that he was gone.
The worst was to drive by the places we had been together, see the parks where he was playing with other dogs, or the pet shops where I bought his treats. Even in grocery stores, seeing the beloved cheese I had always bought for him, I feel the pain again.
“Life goes on… The question is only: is it a life—or something just going on?”
How could I be so devastated? I would have never predicted that I would mourn a dog, my dog. I had not even liked canines in the past, never wanted a dog when I was younger. If a person walking a dog came towards me on the street, I would change sides.
My ex-husband had talked me into getting a dog. Our property was next to a park, and I had two break-ins in my car. After three years, I gave in — but demanded that the dog not be allowed inside the house. My understanding was that dogs chew furniture, jump on couches and beds, and might even steal food from kitchen counters. And after all, this dog had to protect our property. How could he do it when inside the house?
Bentley’s Adoption and First Day
We went to an open house at the local SPCA in Aylmer, a city on the opposite side of the Ottawa River from the capital. The place was packed. It seemed that everyone got out on this sunny early-spring day to find a dog. We received a brief introduction to the adoption process and had to fill out a form. Then we were guided to the kennels. I was shocked. So many dogs, and all were barking like mad.
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The volunteer explained that many of the animals had been at the SPCA for weeks or months, as no one wants to adopt a dog in the winter. The owners would have to walk the pet two or three times a day through piles of snow and in minus 30 degrees Celsius. Would we commit to these chores? Sure!
My then-husband wanted a German Shepherd, while I had no preferences. We had reached the larger kennels when he spotted a German Shepherd. But at that moment, a man came over, opened the kennel door, and took the dog out. He only went for a walk with the animal, but my husband assumed he had adopted the dog. Looking around, there were no other German Shepherds, but I saw a dog that looked similar and was the same size, but had darker fur. It was the only dog that did not bark madly and did not jump at the kennel door as the others did when visitors came close to their kennel.
Only one dog didn’t bark. My husband went to the kennel door, bent down, and held his hand to the fence, trying to lure him towards us. The dog came slowly to the door, sniffed for a second at the hand, then turned around, walked slowly back to the rear of his kennel, and stared into the distance, kind of blasé.
It was such a comical situation, I burst out in loud laughter, while my husband was not amused. “This dog has character. He does not pander to visitors like the other dogs. Let’s get him”, I declared, still laughing. I didn’t want to check out other dogs and pulled hubby towards the reception to finalize the adoption. The name given to the dog we adopted was Bentley. We hadn’t thought about a name for the dog, so we would stay with this one.
With no animal experience whatsoever, I thought a dog should stay in the garden. And as we had a clean and heated garage, he would sleep there. Nevertheless, we needed a crate and a bed for him, but the SPCA sold neither. They gave us addresses of pet stores to purchase these items, and we arranged to pick up Bentley on Monday afternoon.
His age was stated at seven months. He was found alone, roaming the streets in Aylmer in early December. Was he abandoned, or did he run away? No one knew. His (or our luck) was that he had been held at the “no-kill” SPCA from December until late March when we came along.
If he had been found just two miles away, toward the city of Gatineau, he would have been brought to a “kill” shelter. They kill the animals if not adopted within days. And as no one adopts dogs in winter… he would have been on the death row.
On Monday afternoon, my husband called me to explain that I had to pick up the dog as he was not able to make it to the shelter in time. I was nervous when I arrived at the SPCA. One of the volunteers, a very nice young woman, brought Bentley to the door and showed me how to walk him properly before we went to my car.
She seemed to be fond of this dog and knew him well. Tears came into her eyes and ran down her cheeks when she helped me to place him in the rear seat. Bentley resisted and did not want to get in the car. He might have never been in one before. I promised the young her to take good care of him. We were both rather emotional.
Driving out of the parking lot, I felt uncomfortable as Bentley did not stay on the car’s bench but was standing up and was extremely nervous. I had a bag of dog treats placed on the passenger seat and threw him one after the other while I drove home. It took me longer than usual as I made the ride rather slow and gentle. Thank goodness my husband arrived at the same time as I pulled into the driveway.
He walked Bentley around the block, and then we fed him and brought him into his large, brand-new crate — the largest we could find the day before. Bentley seemed to be very forlorn and sad when we closed the crate’s door and then the garage door.
He must have been tired, as he was quiet all night. But at 6 am the next morning, we heard a loud short bark. We ran in our pajamas to the garage to let him out of his crate. Not a minute too soon! He pulled toward the garden and had a long pee and then did his business.
My husband drove to work, and I was alone with the dog. I connected his leash with an extra-long rope so that he could walk fifty or sixty feet into the garden. I had my breakfast, and on my return to the garden, Bentley was lying on an ice mound that was still left from the last snowstorm. I tried to lure him away, but he liked to cool off on the ice. Lesson one: the dog likes it cold, if not icy! He watched me doing some early spring garden chores.
That evening, we walked the dog together and brought him relatively late to his crate. As soon as we were back in the house, he started to bark. I ran out, brought him a cookie, checked his water, and went into the house. Not a minute later, he started barking and whining again.
We both tried to ignore him, but after twenty minutes, I asked hubby to go out and check on him. He returned and said, “The dog is fine, he just doesn’t want to be alone.” So, we let him bark until he finally stopped. But I felt rather guilty and dropped off into a restless sleep.
Not in the House!
This night was short. At 5:30 am, Bentley started barking. It sounded urgent. I put my winter coat over my pajamas, went out to the garage, and had trouble opening his crate. He jumped in circles and rushed out, without me having time to put on his leash. While he brushed by me, he dragged part of his bedding out.
It fell on the side of my coat, and there I saw it: he had diarrhea and had soiled his crate — and my coat. The folks at the SPCA had warned us that most dogs get upset stomachs due to the stress associated with the big changes in their lives.
Bentley did his business in the garden. I put him on the leash, and thanks to our fine garden hose, which was connected to warm water, I could hose him down. But the temperature hovered around zero Celsius, and it started to rain slightly. I brought him back into the garage. With the help of two large towels, I dried his fur. He loved to be massaged and to play around with the towels.
I had no other bedding for Bentley, and in the meantime, it was raining heavily. I held him on the leash, standing in the garage, and pondering what to do. He could not stay in the garden in such a cold, steady rain. Finally, I decided to let him in the house. However, on a short leash, and if he did not behave, he would be brought back to the garage! It would be hours until his bedding was clean and dry.
I opened the front door, and he walked into the hall, looking around and sniffing. Bentley paced the room, stuck his nose in each corner, then quietly lay on the carpet and made himself comfortable. I took off his leash, and he lay on his side and fell asleep, his paws stretched out.
I had never seen a dog sleeping before. It was such a peaceful and innocent picture that touched me. So much for the rule that “the dog will never come into the house”. It took him only two days…
I grabbed a book and read while Bentley slept for two hours. When he woke up, I covered the carpet with a large towel and brought him a water bowl and food. After eating his meal, he came over to me and lay his head on my knee. I patted him on his back and felt Bentley had won my heart — or at least he demanded that I love him and wanted to stay with me indoors.
I decided to give it a try and took his now-washed bedding out of the dryer and placed it in a corner of the living room next to the French glass door that led to the bedrooms. This way, he could see where we were, but he had his own place. It worked fine. He liked his corner, and the next morning, he was already waiting near the door, wagging his tail, when I got out of bed.
Bentley was amazing in the house. He never jumped on anything, followed me from room to room, and lay on the kitchen floor to watch me cooking. Bentley joined us in the evening in the dining room. He got his bowl filled, but only ate a bit of his food and watched us while we had dinner. He never begged at the table. He knew he would get at least a spoonful of our meal once we finished. Only then did he finish his bowl.
As my mother language is German, I automatically spoke German with him, and he seemed to understand my commands. Always using the same words could have helped. As he lived for five months in the SPCA shelter where French was spoken, he also understood French commands. My ex-husband, born and raised in Paris, France, spoke French with him. We also tried English — and it worked too. Bentley was trilingual! Amazing!
During the next fifteen years, Bentley and I would travel, sometimes for months on end, throughout North America. Follow our road trips here on Medium.
Thanks for reading.
