Growing older has a curious way of changing one’s perspective. When I was young, I believed wisdom simply arrived with age, rather like a fine beard on a distinguished gentleman. Having now achieved the respectable age of fourteen, I can report that this is not entirely accurate. Wisdom must be learned. So must patience and, rather inconveniently, so must accepting help.
My people have recently added a third little bottle to my morning routine. I am informed it is for my eyes, because the world has apparently become blurrier than I had noticed. Personally, I maintain that the furniture has developed an unfortunate habit of wandering about the house while I am asleep. My people disagree. They insist my eyesight has been declining for quite some time.
I still see well enough to locate my breakfast bowl and my favorite chair, and I most certainly see well enough to notice when the little menace attempts to steal either one. Nevertheless, each morning now begins with three medicines. One. Two. Three. I sit while my people steady my head, move the fur away from my eyes, and administer the drops with great seriousness. I submit to the process with the quiet dignity expected of an elderly gentleman. There is little value in arguing with people who are trying very hard to help you, and the treats afterward are acceptable compensation.
Around the same time the third bottle joined the collection, my people announced that Agatha would soon begin Puppy School. This caused an immediate and unnecessary disturbance throughout the household.
“School?” she barked. “I’m going to school? Charlie, I’m going to learn things!”
“I should sincerely hope so,” I replied.
She raced around the living room, found one toy, abandoned it for another, and then forgot why she had picked up either of them. By the time she skidded to a stop beside my bed, her entire body was quivering with excitement.
“You already know everything,” she said.
I considered this. “Not everything. Only the important things.”
She accepted the answer without question. One advantage of speaking confidently is that puppies rarely ask for evidence.
The truth, however, is that Puppy School is an excellent idea. Contrary to popular opinion, respectable dogs are not born respectable. We are taught patience, self-control, and the proper way to greet visitors without launching ourselves at their stomachs. We learn that furniture is not a racetrack, shoes are not toys, and another dog’s tail is not a handle. Some dogs require more instruction than others.
I glanced meaningfully toward Agatha. She smiled with such pride that I suspected she believed I had complimented her.
“I get treats at school!” she announced.
Yes. There was still much work to do.
In the days leading up to Puppy School, my people spoke often about classes, good habits, and the considerable amount of training that apparently awaited her. Agatha understood only that treats would somehow be involved and therefore declared the entire enterprise a splendid idea.
I, meanwhile, was becoming acquainted with my third little bottle of eye medicine. It occurred to me that everyone in the house was preparing for a new routine. Mine simply involved fewer biscuits and considerably more eye drops.
When the day of Puppy School finally arrived, my people gathered a leash, water, treats, more treats, and enough additional supplies that one might reasonably conclude they were preparing for a month-long expedition. Agatha followed every movement, bouncing from one person to another and attempting to place herself inside any bag that looked likely to leave the house.
Before departing, she hurried over to me. “I’ll tell you everything when I get back!”
“I await your report,” I said.
The house became remarkably peaceful after she left. I took a nap uninterrupted by paws, squeaking toys, or questions shouted directly into my ear. Later, I made my way toward the kitchen. Near the end of the hallway, I misjudged the corner and bumped gently into the wall.
No harm was done. I merely paused, corrected my direction, and continued. Still, I remembered when I could cross that same hallway without hesitation, even in darkness. Growing older is like that. The changes happen so slowly that one scarcely notices until a familiar hallway becomes just a little less familiar. There is no sense becoming cross about it. One simply learns a new route.
That evening, the front door burst open, and the little menace charged into the house at approximately the speed of enthusiasm.
“Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!”
“I am here,” I answered. “I have been here all day.”
“I learned ‘Focus!’”
“A sensible place to begin.”
“And ‘Sit!’”
“Essential.”
“And I’m really good at ‘Come Touch!’”
“Naturally. It involves running toward a hand and receiving a treat.”
“I mastered it!”
“So I have been informed.”
“And we have homework!”
My people laughed. I did not. Anything worth learning requires practice, and a puppy who behaves only during class has learned very little.
Over the following days, the household settled into a new routine. Agatha practiced her school lessons, and I practiced allowing my people to manage my eyes without making the entire procedure more difficult than necessary. Apparently, we both had homework.
Focus remained Agatha’s greatest challenge. A bird outside, a sound from the kitchen, or a leaf moving across the porch could steal her attention before she remembered a lesson had begun. Only after several attempts would she finally look at the person speaking to her and receive her reward. The little menace appeared firmly convinced that every distraction deserved equal consideration.
Sit, I noticed, was not the difficult part. Remaining seated was apparently considered an optional extension of the exercise. Agatha could place her bottom on the floor with remarkable efficiency, but her understanding of the command seemed to be that one’s bottom should briefly touch the ground before the rest of the body resumed whatever it had been doing.
Come Touch, on the other paw, appeared perfectly suited to her personality. Someone offered a hand. She ran toward it. A treat appeared. Agatha declared this “mastery.” I struggled to identify the difficult portion of the assignment.
Still, education must begin somewhere.
Each morning, the three little bottles appeared, and I sat while my people placed the medicine in my eyes. I did not enjoy it, but a civilized dog need not enjoy every responsibility. He must merely understand why it matters. Three tiny bottles, three interruptions to the morning, and one more lesson in adapting with dignity.
The little menace had begun noticing these changes as well. She watched when my people treated my eyes. She stared when I looked in the wrong direction after someone called my name. Sometimes she followed more closely than usual as I moved through the house.
Unfortunately, Agatha does not yet understand the difference between assistance and impact.
One afternoon, as I approached a chair, she hurried alongside me and pushed her nose and shoulder against my side. I changed direction to avoid being knocked over and found myself moving away from the chair.
“Do not shove me,” I told her.
“You were going the wrong way.”
“I was inspecting the room.”
“With your face?”
“There are several acceptable methods of inspection.”
She remained unconvinced.
My people call this behavior herding.
I call it assault.
Even so, her instincts are not entirely without promise. She notices nearly everything around her. Her difficulty is deciding which things deserve her attention. That, I suspect, is precisely why Focus is taught before more advanced lessons.
Puppy School may teach her to listen before acting. More advanced training might teach her when to move, when to stop, when to guide, and when to leave an elderly gentleman alone. She had correctly concluded that my direction of travel was important. She had not yet discovered that it was also my decision. This, I assume, will require further education.
The same is true of growing older. I may no longer cross every room without hesitation, but I still know my home. I know where the afternoon sun warms the floor, how my people’s footsteps sound, and exactly where the treats are kept.
When something changes, I learn. When a room becomes less certain, I slow down. When my eyes require medicine, I sit still. When help is offered, I consider whether accepting it might be wiser than refusing simply to preserve my pride.
I said consider. I have not become reckless.
Human children begin school because growing up requires instruction. Puppies attend for much the same reason. Age does not end one’s education, however. When we are young, we learn how to become capable. When we are old, we learn how to remain capable when familiar things begin to change.
The little menace is learning to control her considerable enthusiasm. I am learning new routes through familiar rooms, new routines for my medicine, and the occasional necessity of accepting assistance. Neither of us has completed our education.
One day, my eyesight may fail more seriously than it has now. When that day comes, I shall require a companion who can listen carefully, move gently, remain focused, and guide rather than collide. Agatha is not that companion yet. At present, she is a small, energetic creature who believes every hand contains a treat and every moving object requires supervision.
Still, every proper education must begin somewhere.
Puppy School will teach her the basics. I sincerely hope my people continue her education long after the graduation treats have been eaten. With patience, discipline, and an extraordinary amount of practice, she may someday become exactly the sort of companion an elderly gentleman requires.
There is a curious assumption among the young that education eventually ends. It does not. Children continue learning. Puppies continue learning. Even elderly gentlemen continue learning. The lessons merely change. Mine happen to arrive in three little bottles every morning. Hers arrive with treats.
I suspect we shall both have homework tomorrow.
She is not ready to guide an elderly gentleman yet.
Fortunately… I still can.
