u/Aggravating_Canary94

My name is Henry. I'm sixty-eight years old, and two years ago, life took from me the only thing that truly mattered. My son, Thomas. Thirty-two years old. A car accident on a country road, one rainy evening. When you lose a child, the world doesn't stop turning. That's the cruelest part. The sun keeps rising, the neighbors keep going to buy their bread, the mail carrier keeps coming. But inside you, everything is dead. Everything is silent. Thomas wasn't married, but he didn't live alone. He had Balthazar. A Bernese Mountain Dog weighing fifty-five kilos. After the funeral, I had no choice. I had to take the dog home. I'll be honest. I hated that animal. I saw in him only a constant and unbearable reminder of my son's absence. Balthazar was taking up too much space in my small living room. He was shedding his tricolored fur everywhere. He was drooling. And above all, he had that look. Those big, amber eyes, infinitely sad, that seemed to ask me every second, "Where is he?" I never petted him. I simply filled his food bowl with an absent air and opened the garden door for him. I spoke harshly to him. I told him, "Move over," "Go to bed," "Leave me alone." I had made up my mind. I was going to call a rescue organization the following Friday to get rid of him. I couldn't stand his presence anymore. Then Wednesday evening arrived. That night, a storm of unprecedented violence broke over the region. Thunder rattled the windows of the house, lightning tore across the dark sky. Thomas had always been terrified of thunderstorms when he was little. I used to spend hours sitting by his bed, holding his hand until he fell asleep. So, when the thunder crashed, my heart sank. The pain of missing him hit me so hard I thought I was going to suffocate. I went downstairs to the living room, hoping to find some air. That's where I saw him. Balthazar wasn't hiding under a piece of furniture like most terrified dogs do. He was sitting upright in front of the front door. He was trembling all over. Violent shivers ran through his thick fur. He whimpered softly with each clap of thunder.

He stared intently at the doorknob. I approached him and saw what he had between his large paws. It was an old gray scarf. Thomas's scarf. The one he'd worn all winter, the one that still smelled of him. Balthazar must have stolen it from the box I hadn't had the energy to sort through. He'd placed it in front of the door. And he was waiting. He was terrified, scared stiff by the storm, but he was waiting for his master to come through that door to reassure him. Just like he always had. And then, the dam broke. He wasn't a troublesome dog. He was a heart broken into a thousand pieces, just like mine. He was mourning the same person. He was hoping for the same impossible miracle. I fell to my knees on the cold tiles. “He won’t come back, my boy,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “He won’t come back.” Balthazar turned his large head toward me. He looked at me, and for the first time in two months, he came closer. This 120-pound giant literally collapsed against me. He rested his heavy head in the crook of my neck and let out a long sigh, a sigh of infinite sadness. I wrapped my arms around him. I buried my face in his black and tan fur. And I screamed. I cried all the tears I had held back since the accident. I cried for the death of my son clinging to the neck of his best friend. We stayed on the doorstep floor for hours, lulled by the sound of the rain. He and I. Thomas’s two orphans. I never called the association. Today, Balthazar sleeps at the foot of my bed. When I walk through the house, I hear the sound of his claws behind me. When I'm sad, he comes and snuggles his warm side against my leg. People often think they're saving animals by taking them in. The truth is, it was this old, battered dog who kept me from dying of grief.