Remembering Bill Ports

He was a real dog lover, just like me. And although Bill and I never had a lengthy conversation in the two years that we were neighbors, I knew the goodness of his heart.

“How’s Casey?” I asked when I saw him puttering in the yard that first year, his big dog beside him.

“Danes don’t live very long,” he answered with a sad smile.

I saw him walking the old dog slowly around the neighborhood in those final months. The Dane was struggling, but I could tell that Casey was getting the very best care.

“How about Hannah?” he asked as my old dog declined.

“She’s hanging in there,” I said. Bill always bent to scratch Hannah’s ears. He cared about my dogs, and that mattered to me.

When Hannah, my Standard Poodle, died not long after the death of Casey, Bill extended his condolences.

“So sorry to hear about Hannah,” he said. “She was a good girl.” They were two short sentences, but they held a whole lot of meaning. I knew that he cared.

The autumn leaves had just begun to turn the last time we spoke. Bill stopped the mower so he could pat the head of Hazel, my young Standard Poodle.

“She’s a pretty dog, “ he said with admiration.

“I bet you miss having a dog, don’t you, Bill?” I asked cautiously.

“Yes, I still miss Casey,” he said. “But my wife and I want to travel now. We decided not to be tied down to a dog for a while. But someday, I know, we’ll have another Dane.” Bill smiled a satisfied smile, then waved goodbye as Hazel and I ambled up the street. What a nice man, I thought.

A few days later, I heard the news. Bill Ports, the neighbor I liked so well, who loved dogs the way I do, had passed away suddenly. I remembered the way he always said hello, even stopping his car to greet me as I trekked up the street accompanied by my dogs.

I wasn’t surprised to read in Bill’s obituary that his family didn’t want flowers, but rather were asking for donations to Harlequin Haven, a rescue organization for Great Danes. How like Bill to make that his final wish.

On Thursday, when the sun was shining in the crisp October air, I stopped to see Bill’s wife. I told her about my last conversation with her husband. Margaret told me about all the dogs of their marriage: the Great Danes, the Irish Setter, the lab mix, the “mutt” terrier. I wiped tears from my eyes as I left their front porch, my pup shuffling beside me. I would miss Bill’s daily salutations, his heartwarming concern about all things canine.

The night of his wake, I was scheduled to take Hazel to her first obedience class. I considered cancelling. But then I thought about what Bill would want. “Take the dog to her class,” I could hear the soft-spoken neighbor say. To him, a dog really mattered.

Driving to Brigadoon, I remembered Bill walking beside his fawn-colored Casey. I remembered the grief in his eyes when Casey died. I remembered the warmth he shared over Hannah’s passing.

And I knew then that Bill and his dogs were together again. Somewhere in a field of swaying daisies. Walking side by side. A dear man with his sweet dogs.

Because for Bill, that would surely be heaven.


(If you would you like to make a donation to Great Dane rescue, please contact: info@hhdane.com Tell them Bill Ports sent you.)