Benny had always been the kind of dog that made strangers smile. A golden Labrador with big brown eyes and an ever-wagging tail, he greeted every visitor with joy. He loved belly rubs, sunbeams on the porch, and curling up at his owner’s feet at night. For seven years, he was more than a pet—he was family.
Then one morning, everything changed.
His owner, Mrs. Delaney, didn’t come back from the hospital. The house was suddenly filled with silence, and Benny knew something was wrong. He lay by the front door for days, waiting for the sound of her voice, the jingle of her keys. But it never came.
Relatives came and went. They fed him, patted his head, but Benny didn’t respond. The once-sweet dog who’d greet people with a tail wag now sat still, his eyes hollow, his food barely touched. He no longer chased squirrels or barked at the mail truck. He barely moved at all.
When they took him to the shelter, the staff was told he was gentle—but the dog they met was different. Benny avoided eye contact, flinched at sudden movements, and paced endlessly in his kennel. He didn’t bark. He didn’t play. He simply existed, as if the light inside him had gone out.
Volunteers tried to reach him, offering treats and soft words. Days turned to weeks, and while he never snapped or growled, the sweet dog they were told about seemed like a distant memory.
Benny had lost more than just his home—he had lost the person who made his world whole.
