The park lights have been out since Sunday’s storm. For days, Ben and I have braved the pitch-black trails, save for a small patch clinging to the glow of solar lamps.

Walking through those shadows, my heart pumped faster. I worried about glass shards, joggers appearing out of the gloom, or snakes waiting to strike. I even played out the worst-case scenarios: Ben getting bitten, or me getting bitten and having to get him home safely before calling for help. Or calling Jesse for the last time.

None of those things happened, but the fear was real because Ben is the world to me. Every precaution I take is a testament to that.

There Be Lights

When the council finally restored the lights, a new variable appeared: a stray brown dog. I watched it from my gate, sniffing the same patch of grass for a long time. It looked abandoned.

Ben watched me, tail still after wagging a few times, wondering why we hadn’t started our ritual. I made him wait. I wasn’t going to risk a confrontation. When the stray finally moved off, we took the opposite direction.

Tenacity at Twelve

Even with the lights on, the park is full of would-be “intruders” – joggers, walkers, and eventually, that same brown dog rounding a corner.

Ben did what Ben does. He caught the scent, saw the stranger, and barked his protest. I led him away immediately. I don’t know that stray’s temperament, and I don’t need to. My job is to be the buffer between Ben and a bad day.

I’ve spent years getting tense during these encounters, worrying about the “what ifs.” But looking at him as I wipe his paws back at home, I realize we’ll be fine. If a dog gets too close, I’ll wave my umbrella like a madman and pull a stubborn, uncooperative Ben toward safety.

Ben turns twelve this November. He is older, but his spirit is as tenacious as ever. He is my constant, my responsibility, and quite simply, my everything.

I thank God for Ben.