Poor Riley

Ben, the brother of my coworker Katie, died last weekend. He'd battled cancer, long and hard, for 9 months. He came home from the Mayo Clinic two weeks ago, when there was no longer any hope. He was 24.

Katie is a dear and darling girl, pregnant with her first baby, and of course I'm worried about her. This must be a hideously painful time for her, and I hate that.

But the one that really gets to me is Riley, Ben's dog. They were so close that Riley is mentioned in the obit. As hard as this is for Katie, at least she understands what's going on. This must be so awful for Riley. His person was gone for months, came home for a while but behaved very differently, and then disappeared.

Katie's parents requested donations be made in their son's memory to the local high school's PE dept. Whatever. I never met Katie's parents and they don't know me, either.

I went my own way and contacted their neighborhood animal shelter, sending a donation "in memory of Ben and in celebration of his relationship with Riley." The shelter is sending notification to Katie directly, not her parents.