I knew something was wrong before the truck stopped moving. At fourteen, you learn to trust your instincts, particularly when your eyesight has gone mostly decorative and the people responsible for your comfort have been gone far longer than necessary. The big truck rolled into the driveway, growling as its tires crunched over the gravel. I lifted my head from my bed and listened. My people were home.
Under normal circumstances, that would have meant dinner, attention, and the restoration of proper household order. Instead, somewhere outside, I heard a high-pitched whimper. I froze. There are sounds an old dog recognizes immediately: the refrigerator opening, a treat bag crinkling, thunder moving in from the west. And puppy noises. Puppy noises are trouble announcing themselves.
The front door opened, and my people came inside talking in those soft, excited voices they use when they have made a decision without consulting me. Then the smell hit me. Warm fur. Milk breath. Pet store. Nervous stomach. New collar. A faint trace of pee waiting for an opportunity. Puppy. Wonderful.
“Charlie,” one of my people said, “come meet Agatha.” I had no intention of doing any such thing. Unfortunately, Agatha came to meet me. Her nails scrabbled across the floor in a rapid tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—fast, uncoordinated, and coming directly toward me. My vision is not entirely gone. I can still make out light, shadow, and large objects when they are close enough. What approached me looked like a small brown cloud that had been struck by lightning. The cloud crashed into my face, and a wet nose went directly into my ear.
I jumped back. She followed. I moved left. She moved left. I moved right. She moved right. I stopped. She ran into me. This creature had been in my house for less than thirty seconds and had already violated several boundaries.
“Agatha,” my people said, laughing. They were laughing. That told me exactly how much support I could expect.
The puppy wagged so hard that her whole body bent in the middle. Then she dropped her front end, stuck her backside in the air, and barked directly into my face. I stared at the blurry nuisance before me. “No,” I told her. She barked again. “No.” She bounced sideways. “I am fourteen years old. I do not bounce.” She attacked my beard.
I growled—not a vicious growl, mind you. I am a gentleman, after all. It was the sort of growl one uses when a waiter brings the wrong soup for the second time. The puppy released my beard, sneezed in my face, and immediately tried to climb over me. I turned and walked away. She followed. I walked faster. She followed faster.
I know this house. I know every wall, every chair, every doorway, and every safe route between my bed and the kitchen. I do not need eyes. I have memory, dignity, and years of experience. What I did not have was a defense plan for a woolly missile weaving around my legs. She darted in front of me, so I stepped around her. She moved in front again. I changed direction, and she cut me off. That was when I understood what she was doing. She was herding me. Me! A retired gentleman in his own home.
I stopped and turned toward her. “Listen carefully, young lady. I am not a sheep.” She licked my nose. I had no response prepared for that. My people laughed again.
Then the puppy wandered into the middle of the room, squatted, and peed on the floor. There it was. Proof. My people had made a terrible mistake, and the puppy had kindly demonstrated it before dinner. “No, Agatha,” they said, their voices suddenly serious. Good. At last, reason had entered the room. They picked her up and carried her outside. I stood there listening as the door closed behind them.
That was surprisingly efficient. I had expected more discussion. Perhaps my people had finally reached the obvious conclusion: the puppy was defective and needed to be returned. I settled back into my bed. Order had been restored.
A few minutes later, the door opened. Agatha came back in. My people sounded pleased because she had pooped behind a tree.
Well, damn. Apparently, this arrangement was permanent.
The puppy came charging toward me again, nails rattling across the floor. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. I moved behind a chair. She went around it. I went under the table. She followed, misjudged the height, and bumped her head. For one brief and beautiful moment, there was silence. Then she barked at the table. Naturally. Eventually, she found me and leaned against my side. I stepped away. She leaned against me again. I stepped farther. She followed until I reached the wall, then sat beside me with her shoulder pressed against mine as though we had survived a war together.
We had known each other for perhaps fifteen minutes. I did not move. Not because I liked her. I was tired. There is a hell of a difference.
Later, my people gave her a rubber thing called a Kong. She chewed it for a while, which was the first useful decision she had made all day. As a point of order, my people had never bought me a Kong thing. Then she abandoned it and came looking for my beard again. By evening, the entire house smelled like puppy. My people smelled like puppy. The floor smelled like puppy. Even my blanket smelled like puppy. That last offense felt personal.
At bedtime, my people put her in a crate. At last, I thought. Containment.
Then she began to cry. It started with a little whimper, followed by a louder one. Then a howl rose from the crate like the final warning of a dying civilization. “I want to go home!” I lifted my head. For the first time all day, the puppy and I agreed on something. I wanted her to go home too. She howled again. My people spoke gently to her, which only encouraged her to cry louder.
I put my head beneath my blanket. It did not help. Five years. I had enjoyed five peaceful years as the only dog in this household. Five years of naps, routines, and meals served without interruption. Now a tiny brown lunatic had arrived, peed on the floor, bitten my beard, chased me through my own house, attempted to herd me, and screamed through bedtime.
She was smaller than me then. That was the one comforting thought I had as I finally drifted to sleep. At least she was small. Surely she would stay that way.
I have made mistakes in my life. That one ranks near the top.
