I say this with love and a face full of fur—if dogs could be autistic, mine 100% would qualify.
Look, I’m not saying Bentley has a diagnosis. But if the DSM ever dropped a Canine Edition, he’d ace the questionnaire, start a support group, and color-code the kibble. Let me explain.
Social Skills? What Social Skills?
Bentley greets other dogs like a socially confused freight train. No boundaries. No warm-up. Just straight-up nose in the butt like he’s scanning their DNA.
If the other dog tries to leave, he takes it as an invitation. Tail wagging like a glitchy metronome, tongue flapping like he’s mid-presentation on “Why We Should Be Best Friends.”
Subtlety? Never met her.
People? Same thing. He doesn’t just say hi. He says, “I love you, here’s my body, here’s my whole life story, please never leave me, and also can I sniff your eyeballs?” It’s intense. We don’t do small talk here.
Consent? Optional. Personal space? A myth. Sit down and he’s instantly on you like a weighted blanket with attachment issues.
Routine? It’s a Lifestyle.
Routine isn’t a suggestion in Bentley’s world. It’s sacred law.
Change the feeding time? He acts like he’s never eaten before.
Walk a different route? Existential crisis. Move the footstool? He’ll still try to jump on it like it’s there—then fall off, confused and betrayed.
He has to spin three times before pooping. If he gets interrupted, we start over. And his blanket? It’s that one or NOTHING. No substitutions. Just dramatic sighs.
Bentley eats at the same time, sleeps in the same spots, expects the same order of events. He’s basically a tiny, squishy chaos-avoider with four legs and a firm belief in “the schedule.”
Sensory Drama? All Day, Every Day.
Bentley is the poster pup for sensory sensitivities.
Loud sounds? Panic. Crowds? Full shutdown. Vacuum?
Immediate zoomies and an hour under the bed.
He used to be sensitive to light, sounds, fabrics—you name it. Now that he’s older and going a little deaf and blind, he mostly just barks at what used to be upsetting, just in case.
He spins in circles when excited, wipes his face obsessively, shakes things off constantly, and loses it over weird smells.
He also finds huge comfort in deep pressure. If dog-safe weighted blankets existed, he’d live under three of them.
And yes, he does try to sniff your eyeballs. I don’t know why. I’ve stopped asking.
Special Interests & Hyperfocus
Bentley’s not into hobbies. He’s got obsessions.
McDonald’s fries? He knows the bag. The sound. The smell. Full meltdown if he doesn’t get his share.
Green toys? Only green. Doesn’t matter that dogs supposedly can’t see color. Green is law.
And guests? He gets so excited he forgets to eat, sleep, or blink. Then crashes into an emotional puddle of snorts and sighs.
Social hangover, activated.
He hyperfixates, burns out, and then recharges by hiding under blankets or carrying his 6th toy of the morning around like it holds his last brain cell.
Masking? Kind of. He Lived With a Cat.
Bentley never quite learned how to “dog.” He doesn’t play like other pups. Doesn’t follow dog social cues. Sometimes he just… stares at a wall or the corner of a room. It’s giving “I’m overstimulated and need a reset.”
He even picked up cat behaviors after living with one—some kind of canine masking. He’s been trying to figure out how to belong for years, and honestly? Same.
Final Diagnosis?
If dogs could be autistic, Bentley would be proudly flying that neurodivergent flag—and probably trying to eat it.
But here’s the thing: he’s not broken. He’s not “too much.” He’s just built different. A little spicy, a lot sensitive, and completely unforgettable.
And in this house? That’s a badge of honour.
Now if you’ll excuse me, he’s brought me a chewed-up green toy and is waiting for me to emotionally validate him.
NeuroExplorer 