Obituaries

There are dogs who join a family, and then there are dogs who alter the gravitational pull of an entire community. Bento was the latter.

Bento’s life began on May 24, 2007. In late 2010, he was found as a stray on the streets of Gwinnett County after being hit by a car. When I walked into the Atlanta Pet Rescue several months later, I issued a simple request – “show me the one who needs the most love.” The staff member took me to the last pen and pointed to the matted white dog with the large scar down his right side from his recent leg amputation. His head was tucked into a cone, and he was motionless as he stared into the corner of his concrete pen. I walked in gently and invited him into my lap. He limped over, looked up at me, and then opened up his arms for a belly rub. I knew then that he was my boy.

The universe, with its infinite mystery and sense of humor, handed me a three-legged athlete with the stubbornness of a revolutionary, the spirit of a wise monk, and the comedic timing of a chaos gremlin who would destroy any boyfriend’s shoe or shred any innocent shower loofah left in his path. I thought I was adopting a dog who needed the most love. Instead, my life became intertwined with the soul who would be my anchor and unwavering friend for the next fifteen years.

From the beginning, Bento watched me from his bed the way old poets watch the sea – quietly and with unmatched awareness. Head resting between his paws, he listened to the clack of my keyboard throughout all 655 pages of my doctoral dissertation on migrant farmworker movements. As a good luck writing ritual, I would place each printed chapter underneath Bento for the necessary proofreading and blessing to continue. During this first year together, Bento wasn’t just beside me; he was building trust between us, bearing witness, and silently encouraging me to forge ahead with his faithful presence.
Bento balanced life on three legs, but he moved like he’d simply deemed his fourth leg unnecessary. He tore across the little dog park at Piedmont Park, chasing skateboarders with the righteous conviction of a tiny sheriff. He would fly up a flight of stairs, his back leg serving as a magic pogo stick rather than an impediment. And when the fire trucks wailed down Monroe Drive? Ooh, how he would sit in position, throw back his head in full-bodied harmony, and join the sirens as though the entire city of Atlanta was calling him to song.

Bento loved hard, and he loved wide, and quickly became a beloved member of my entire family. For six years, he was one of my parents’ two treasured grandpuppies. Bento’s cousin Blaine - an Australian Shepherd rescue - served a more serious job throughout the year as Senator Al Franken’s office dog, but the cousins would meet annually at Christmas in rural Minnesota, where they were a team of equals waiting for grandpa’s Mickey Mouse pancakes and dog piles on the sofa. Blaine, with his thick coat of fur, was made for the -20 degree winters - but Bento, a Maltese with silken white hair made for sunbathing in the Mediterranean, would not be left behind on our outdoor winter adventures. Always the handyman, my dad drilled a box onto an old set of wooden skis, and rigged it on a rope tied to Blaine. Through miles and miles of snowy trails through the woods, Blaine would pull Bento - wrapped in numerous layers of doggy sweaters and blankets - on a sleigh we lovingly, of course, called the Bento Box.

Back in Atlanta, Bento joined me in my many adventures in getting into good trouble. When a busload of farmworkers from Immokalee, Florida came to Atlanta for a Civil Rights Tour in April 2011, just months after his adoption, Bento joined them on the bus. To many workers who had left behind their beloved dogs in their home countries of Mexico, Guatemala, and Haiti, holding Bento was a rare moment of healing and comfort. He was passed around slowly from worker to worker with utmost care on the bus, and even joined them as a guest of honor as they toured the campus of Morehouse College and learned about the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr from his student, and my mentor, Mr. Charles Black.

Bento later joined the workers on the picket lines outside of Publix demanding fair pay for the farmworkers who pick their tomatoes, parked at one end of the picket where workers patted his head with joy each of the hundreds of times they passed by. Bento marched alongside Congressman John Lewis for immigrant rights, joined students in occupying the President’s office at Emory University in solidarity with cafeteria workers trying to form a union, and planted his small but fearless body between the community of mourners and hundreds of police with riot gear at the execution of Troy Davis in September 2011. Bento showed up with a seriousness I didn’t fully understand until much later. Bento wasn’t a mascot; he was a witness to injustice and a soft shield to comfort and protect those who stood in its path.

In the summer of 2014, after I had served for one year as a volunteer professor at Freedom University - a school for undocumented students who were banned from equal access to public universities in Georgia - the founding professors left the organization and emptied the bank account, effectively closing the project. Bento and I sat side-by-side on my bed in a rented room in Atlanta and realized we had a choice to make. That summer, with the help of many of our friends and remaining students, we worked tirelessly to re-establish Freedom University in Atlanta. I moved from volunteer teacher to full-time educator, organizer, and director. Alongside me, Bento became Freedom University’s unofficial Ambassador of Love and Minister of Education. In this dual role, he spent thirty semesters comforting students who buried their faces in his soft fur, thirty semesters sitting through my human rights lectures with the patience of a furry saint, thirty semesters as our quiet elder who never missed a class. He adored the students in my care, and with each semester, the village he vowed to love and protect would grow.

Bento aged, but he never shrank. In 2018 he tolerated becoming a big brother to Churro and Mochi, two Spanish-speaking Cuban street dogs I rescued from Havana whose lives began very differently from his. But Bento welcomed them the same way he welcomed everyone: with assurance. In our home—where tripod amputees from the local shelter and pups from Old Havana with snack-inspired names are equally welcomed and safe – Bento taught them the house rules. He explained how mom greets in English, expresses love in Spanish, and serves food and sings lullabies in Japanese. He shared, to their disbelief, that treats truly do arrive in abundance. And most importantly, he reassured them that when mom leaves, she always, always comes home.

Bento was with me through many seasons, and through times of both celebration and grief. Bento was by my side for every loss for fifteen years. With the loss of each of my four grandparents, each departure was met with his warmth against my ribs. And when my partner Matt died, the human love of my life, died tragically at the age of 40, Bento held vigil beside me. Many tears fell on his sweet head, and not once did he move away. For fifteen years, he slept in his spot next to me in bed, and snored straight into my ear like it was his job. But just like his habit of chewing loudly with his mouth open, he was the only man in my life to receive amnesty for such offenses.

We moved eight times together in Atlanta, and in each home, he guarded me from his designated throne by the window, barking warnings at delivery drivers, innocent solicitors, and the occasional plastic bag or imaginary threat. At our current and final home, the nose smears he left on the front window are still here, and they are now holy in his absence. We revere them like stained glass in a cathedral as evidence of his unwavering devotion.

Every year we celebrated Bento’s birthdays with the theatrics he deserved. Every May, Freedom Barkway’s small dog park would be decked out in color-coordinated themes. On Bento’s Sweet 16, we all came dressed in cobalt blue, and he was serenaded by Freedom University’s son jarocho music ensemble in front of a string of letters on the fence that read “Happy Birthday Mother Puppers” to the delight of many passerbys. For his “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” Sound of Music birthday party, we came donned in red sparkling cone hats, and he was presented with a plaque by the City of South Fulton for his years of service to social justice.

For his grand 18th birthday party, we came in black, white, and gold, and dog guests wore tuxedo bandanas. It was the year, after all, where he could now buy lottery tickets, vote in elections, and legally change his name to a more grown up “Ben” if he so desired. More than twenty of my former students over the years came to celebrate his birthday, some of whom were just a few years older than Bento himself. In one photo, with several of the students who had thrived in his care of his decade of service at Freedom University, they created a half-circle around him and looked down adoringly at him. They were a perfectly formed nativity scene, except the baby in the manger was Bento in a perfectly tailored party outfit and entirely too many treats.

Even when he lost his vision this past year, Bento never surrendered his sense of adventure. He wore either shaded doggles or a cone on his backyard expeditions, and he even had a helmet with a sliding visor that made him look like he was ready for intergalactic adventures. When his legs weakened, his grandma sent a stroller so he could keep going on walks and traveling with us – Churro and Mo flanking his chariot like loyal knights. We all took a final road trip to Minnesota this past summer, where Bento hopped along between the corn rows in the cool soil, and enjoyed sunsets over rolling prairies with us every evening.

Last week, I watched with unbearable sadness as Bento’s body began surrendering to the cruelty of time. I told my sister that Bento was likely in his final days, and as the loving older sister that she is, she did extensive research of Yelp and Google reviews of at-home euthanasia services, and set up an appointment with the vet with the most extraordinary reviews. She reserved his last available appointment that week - and gave me his number if I decided to change the date. With the tentative goodbye date scheduled if we needed it, I invited my friends, chosen family, and students to an outdoor sound healing and gratitude ceremony to celebrate Bento while he was still with us. Laying peacefully on his blanket, covered in brightly colored marigolds, poppies, and camellias, we formed a circle around the little warrior dog who had been our teacher, our sage, and our community guardian.

With the gentle sound of sound bowls, harps, and wooden flutes in the background, we shared our favorite memories of Bento. Sergio reminded us how Bento adorably video bombed his audition tape to the Berkeley College of Music, but he sent it in anyway. Jacqueline reminded us how Bento was there when we painted handmade butterfly wings for students to wear into the classroom sit-in at the University of Georgia in 2015. Vanessa shared how Bento visits and dog piles on my patio provided her with much-needed joy throughout the pandemic. We laughed through our tears, and through it all, Bento listened. He was blind but present, and his spirit was still tuned to beauty. He was kissed, thanked, and honored. Like before, he didn’t move his head when tears fell upon him, even though they were tears mourning his upcoming departure.

And then came the moment for which no dog parent ever feels ready. Murakami writes that pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. I believe this also applies to the love and compassion we have for our dog companions. Through the breaking of my own heart this week, I became intimately aware of what compassion really means: the courage to prioritize another’s wellbeing - including the alleviation of their suffering - rather than seeking refuge in the denial of their pain. As I watched Bento begin to struggle, I understood my responsibility of loving him well until the very end, and what compassion required of me.
Letting Bento go was about respecting his dignity and preventing his suffering, and prioritizing this above my own desperate desire to keep him in my arms forever. It was the most painful act of love and mercy I’ve ever had to carry out, and also the most faithful.

After nearly two decades of service, during which he provided comfort and protection during countless marches and meetings, classes and community events, protests and break-ups, moves and vigils, it was finally time for Bento to be relieved from his duties and rest. In his final hours, Bento crawled between his dear siblings Churro and Mochi, letting them comfort him the way he had comforted each of us. In his final moments, he savored the taste of a Nutella sweet bun, curled into my arms, and slipped out of this world gently—on the same day and at the same hour as Matt’s passing four years before. Bento really knew how to close a circle.

I have no doubt Bento was immediately received with joy – by Matt, by my grandparents, by my childhood dog Frisky, by his cousin Blaine, his neighbor Foxy, his long-distance friend Tarte, and all the good souls awaiting him in that place that is soft, where flowers grow on clouds.

People may warn you not to pick the dog who looks like he needs the most love. But that choice gave me fifteen years of the purest companionship I’ll ever know. I thought I was rescuing him. In truth, Bento spent his entire life rescuing so many of us with unconditional love —again and again, until his final breath.

It is clear to me that love shared with a dog feels so different from love shared with a fellow human: not more or less important, just fundamentally different. I think it feels like such a different kind of love because it is not disguised or interrupted by words. It is what love actually is: loving action. Not promises. Not potential. Not intention. Loving action that is here, in the present, and undeniable. Bento showed me his love every day as my companion, my protector, my brave little revolutionary, and fellow good trouble maker. I am overwhelmed with tears of both gratitude and grief remembering how down Bento was for any hilarious Halloween costume or seasonal sweater I had planned; how overjoyed he was each time I would pick him up and dance bachata with him in my living room; how he offered himself willingly to rapid fire nose kisses whenever I became overwhelmed with unrestrained cute aggression. He was excited about anything and everything, as long as it was with me. He bore witness to my life and I bore witness to his.

In his absence, I waver between heartbreak and awe, but I mostly end with awe: how incredibly lucky were we to have found one another?

May his memory continue to inspire us to be our most loving and compassionate selves - to ourselves, to each other, and to all other creatures. May we, like Bento, be brave and fully present in the one brief life that we are given here on Earth – and be prepared for any intergalactic adventure that awaits.

Rest in peace and power forever, my sweet boy.

Bento Box Soltis, presente!

(By Bento's mom, Laura Emiko Soltis. All rights reserved)