🐾 National Dog Day — Remembering Benny

I never had a dog before Benny.

When I married my husband, John Blair, Benny had already been part of his life for years. John adopted him in 1999 after Benny broke his leg racing and had to retire from the Greyhound circuit. By the time I came to live with them, Benny was eleven years old — silver beginning to dust his regal brindle face, but his spirit still bright and playful.

He and I bonded immediately.

There was something about his eyes — dark brown and full of intelligence — that felt like recognition. As if he had decided, without hesitation, You belong to me now. His love was infectious. I had never known the quiet devotion of a Greyhound before. Every morning after breakfast, he would find me wherever I was in the house. He’d stand there patiently, looking up at me as if to say, “Come on Mom. Let’s go for a walk.”

And we would.

Sometimes we walked to the local park. Other times I would take him grocery shopping in our van. He loved to stand tall inside the van, watching the cars go by like a king surveying his kingdom. He waited patiently while I shopped — or so I thought.

One afternoon I came back to discover the sushi I had carefully chosen was gone. Completely gone. Another time it was sliced roast beef. Benny had a nose that could outwit any sealed grocery bag. I couldn’t even be mad. The evidence would be a satisfied Greyhound and a slightly guilty sparkle in his eyes.

Before I knew it, he wasn’t just John’s dog.

He was my heart.

Benny had once been a champion racer — winning forty of his sixty races, placing second ten times, breaking records at the Naples Derby and still holding the fastest time in 1999. His racing name was RMJ’s Playtime, and it fit him perfectly. Even after retirement, he would run at top speed between the backyard fences, stopping abruptly, then spinning around in joy. People would literally stop their cars when we walked him just to ask who he was. His brindle coat and elegant stance made him impossible to ignore.

He loved dressing up for Halloween and Christmas. He chased squirrels and cats with Olympic enthusiasm. But in his final year, heart disease took its toll. His legs, once powerful and swift, could no longer carry him.

On May 7, 2014, at 12:25 p.m., we gave his unrelenting spirit back to God.

There is no Benny to greet us at the door anymore. That silence was the hardest part.

A couple of nights after he went over the Rainbow Bridge, I had a dream. Benny appeared, shining in white light, smiling at me. Clear as day he said, “Mom, I am okay.” I woke with tears — not of grief, but of peace.

I took his ashes and planted a Desert Willow tree in our front yard. In 2018, the tree blossomed for the very first time — on Mother’s Day.

I do not believe that was a coincidence.

I never had a dog before Benny. I did not know that an animal could open your heart in ways you did not know were possible. He taught me about loyalty, presence, forgiveness, and the sacredness of daily walks. He taught me that love does not leave — it changes form.

Today, on National Dog Day, I remember my first dog.

My Greyhound.
My grocery-store accomplice.
My park-walking companion.
My shining boy.

Thank you, Benny, for choosing me.

Love,
Mom 🐾