Benji is eleven inches tall at the shoulders, has seven inch legs, and weighs fourteen pounds. He has a hairless potbelly which is stained bright red from the iron ore-rich ground he walks on.
Benji loves everyone and is a patient and serene beast. He allows cats to sleep with him, as long as they don’t try to lay on him. When he walks, he wobbles from stern to bow in an appealing waddle.
Above anything else in the world, Benny loves food. Although dry food is left out for the dogs, they still receive a canned treat in the evening, and Benny’s day is centered on this event. While he’s sucking up this canned food, his little body stiffens like a puppy’s, and—between the slurping sounds—can be heard little snuffles, snorts, and moans of pleasure.
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(Note: This is an excerpt from a letter written by my brother, Bob Williams, on December 22, 1997. Part I is dedicated to Rae and Patti. Part II will follow on Thursday.)
The other day I was walking in the woods with a small companion who is a very close friend, you might say family status. I became engrossed in other things, and when I turned around, he was nowhere in sight!
I called for him, but there was no response. I looked for him down in the ditches, through the trees—calling his name all the while. After five minutes, I felt the back of my neck start to heat up, and my calls took on a desperate tone: Panic had set in.
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