There are many indignities associated with growing old. Your hearing becomes selective. Your eyesight becomes decorative. Your knees file formal complaints every morning. But none of these compares to having your retirement interrupted by a creature who believes personal space is a myth.
The little menace had now lived with us for several days. My people called her “Agatha.” She appeared to believe this meant she was in charge. Every morning began the same way. I would emerge from my bed, stretch each joint individually, and prepare for a leisurely inspection of the house. Before I reached the kitchen, there she was. Tail spinning so fast it might achieve flight. “Hi, Charlie!” Before I could answer— Bounce! “Whatcha doing, Charlie?” Bounce! “Can I walk with you?” She never waited for an answer. She simply attached herself to my journey like an enthusiastic burr.
I attempted diplomacy. I walked away. She followed. I walked faster. She galloped. I stopped. She stopped. I turned around. Her nose was approximately two inches from mine. She wagged. I sighed. As though this daily campaign were not enough, my people eventually decided the puppy required a visit to the veterinarian. Perfectly reasonable. What was not reasonable was their conclusion that I should accompany her. Apparently, they believed the little beast would benefit from having a familiar face nearby. I can assure you the feeling was not mutual.
The moment we climbed into the truck, she treated the entire journey as a celebration. She bounced from one side of the seat to the other, attempted to lick my ears on three separate occasions, and somehow managed to step on every arthritic joint I possess. The people repeatedly said, “Leave Charlie alone.” Agatha, displaying the remarkable listening skills common to puppies, interpreted this as encouragement. The clinic itself was an assault on the senses. Strange animals. Strange smells. Strange people who seemed entirely too cheerful for a place where thermometers routinely appear in deeply personal locations.
Naturally, everyone adored the puppy. “Oh, she’s precious.” “Look how friendly she is.” “She’s so curious.” Curious? She attempted to eat the corner of the examination table.
Meanwhile, the staff looked at me with the sort of sympathetic smile one reserves for elderly relatives. “He’s such a sweet old gentleman.” “Look at those cloudy little eyes.” “He’s so patient.” I am not patient. I have simply learned that protesting rarely improves the situation.
When the examination was over, Agatha trotted over to me wearing the satisfied expression of someone who believed we had just shared a delightful adventure together. Her tail wagged furiously. Mine did not.
By the time we arrived home, I was thoroughly exhausted despite having done absolutely nothing. Youth, I have concluded, is remarkably tiring for everyone else. Therefore, I retired to my bed for what civilized people recognize as an afternoon nap. I had just become comfortable when I heard tiny feet.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I opened one eye. Agatha stood beside my bed. She looked at me. I looked at her. Surely, I thought, she understands. She did not.
With the confidence possessed only by puppies and politicians, she climbed directly into my bed. She circled three times. Then she flopped down against me. Against me. As though we had jointly purchased the bed. I stood up. She looked confused. Wonderful. Perhaps the lesson had landed. I walked away and found another place to sleep.
The next day, she did it again. This continued for four days. Apparently, in her tiny puppy brain, every successful occupation of my bed confirmed that it belonged to both of us.
Eventually, a gentleman must defend his property. The opportunity presented itself one quiet afternoon. I was already asleep. Deeply asleep. Dreaming of being young again and chasing squirrels through the backyard. Then— Boing. The mattress bounced. Tiny paws. A wet nose. A puppy attempting to burrow beneath my chin. Without opening my eyes, I produced one sharp bark. “WOOF!”
Then I snapped the air precisely one inch in front of her nose. Not to bite. Good heavens, no. Just enough to say, This meeting has concluded.
The effect was immediate. Agatha launched backward as though gravity had suddenly increased. Her ears flattened. Her eyes became enormous. She fled across the room at remarkable speed. I watched her disappear around the corner. Silence. At last.
I settled back into my bed. Five glorious minutes later, one of my people appeared. “Oh, Charlie…” There is no phrase in the English language less encouraging. They scratched behind my ears. “Good boy for telling her.” Exactly. Someone understood protocol.
Then they comforted Agatha. Apparently, she had been terribly frightened. I considered pointing out that I had experienced four consecutive days of unauthorized bed invasions. No one had comforted me. Justice, I have observed, is inconsistent.
For the remainder of the afternoon, Agatha maintained a respectful distance. She watched me from across the room. Every time I looked up, she quickly looked somewhere else. Excellent. The lesson had been learned. Or so I believed.
The following morning I returned from breakfast. There, in the center of my bed, was Agatha. Fast asleep. One tiny paw hanging over the edge. I stared. She opened one eye. Her tail thumped once. “Oh! Hi, Charlie!”
She scooted over an inch. “There is room for you.” I closed my eyes, took the deepest sigh I had managed in fourteen years, and realized something profoundly unfortunate. She wasn’t being disrespectful. She wasn’t trying to steal my bed. She genuinely believed she was sharing it. I climbed into my own bed. She immediately scooted closer. Warm. Tiny. Entirely convinced we were the best of friends. I sighed once more.
Being an old gentleman, I have discovered, is exhausting. Especially when your greatest adversary thinks you’re her favorite person.
