By James Bennett III
My best friend died Feb. 15 around 10:33 a.m.
He was a 14-year-old Maltese named Lucky. I had known him since I was 8.
Overall, he was a very happy dog. Whenever I took him to a new veterinarian or groomer, they would always inform me that he had a very charming smile.
It almost feels cheap to be writing about him; words cannot describe his impact on my life. I am writing about him because death is for the living, and he deserves to be remembered.
I refused to make any statement on social media regarding his death because the last thing that I want is a bunch of half-assed sad react emojis and people commenting “I’m sorry for your loss, let me know if there is anything that I can do for you.” None of that will bring back my dog.
My brother, at the risk of sounding hokey, reminded me that Lucky would always be with me in my memories. He would be there in the McDonald’s french fries that we shared on long road trips. Lucky would be there in the music that he loved so much.
Neither my brother, nor myself, are very spiritual. I personally do not believe in souls or spirits.
I choose to believe in the law of conservation of energy which states energy can neither be created nor destroyed. When we die, our molecules are redistributed back into the universe in a funky version of osmosis.
I am still adjusting to Lucky’s death three weeks later.
His food and water bowl still sit in my room, and I have to catch myself daily from saying something like “I’m playing with my dog when I get home.”
When I go from my living room to my bedroom, I still expect to hear the pitter-patter of his paws and his happy yipping. I can still see him running in circles, excited for me to hold him.
I remember asking my mother how long Lucky was supposed to live when I was a child. She told me that he was supposed to stick around until I was in college.
His death seemed so far away at that time, but by the time that I started my freshman year, every day was a constant reminder of time’s incessant marching toward Lucky’s — and everybody else’s — death.
I used to lay in bed for hours holding Lucky and wishing that time would stop for the both of us.
None of us will escape death. Some believe in an afterlife or rebirth, but they will reach the end of this life before they go on to the next.
I believe that once you die, your consciousness goes back to the way that it was before you were born.
Following that belief, everybody has one chance to do the things that matter most to them.
Spending time with Lucky was a high-ranking priority for me. I almost regret going to school and work instead of spending all of my time with him, but I understand the necessity of doing the “responsible” things in life, especially when those things helped me feed and care for Lucky.
Although Lucky will never greet me with shrill barks ever again, I will always remember him as my favorite collection of molecules. His passing has reminded me that we can all be a bit more aware of the fortune in our lives.
The existential philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre, once wrote that “Hell is other people.” I’m not entirely sure if I agree with that train of thought, but I am almost certain that heaven walks on four legs.
