Puppies spend an astonishing amount of energy trying to make good things happen.
Us older dogs know better.
At fourteen years of age, which I have heard is nearly 100 for people, I have learned that there are very few problems that cannot be improved by finding a comfortable place to lie down and waiting for the people to notice you. This is not laziness. It is experience.
You see, as a Shih Tzu, my ancestors were companions to Chinese emperors and nobles. We were not bred to herd sheep, retrieve ducks, or spend our afternoons sprinting after sticks that someone intentionally threw away. We were bred to be excellent company.
And excellent company does not chase things.
Excellent company is invited.
Agatha has not yet learned this.
Every morning begins with the little menace conducting what appears to be a full inspection of the house. She follows every person from room to room. She investigates every sound. If a cabinet opens, she is there. If a drawer slides out, she is there. If someone so much as thinks about entering the kitchen, she somehow arrives before they do. She is convinced that if she stops moving for even a moment, she might miss something wonderful.
I observe all this from my bed. Eventually, someone says, “Good morning, Charlie.” A few moments later, I receive a visit.
Sometimes it is a gentle scratch behind my ears. Sometimes it is an invitation onto the couch or a lap. Sometimes I am escorted outside for a stroll in the sunshine. Sometimes a treat appears.
I rarely have to go looking for any of it. My people simply bring it to me. This arrangement has served me well for fourteen years.
Agatha believes she is being productive.
I believe she is making herself tired.
This week, the people took Agatha to puppy school again. She returned full of exciting news about something called “Take It” and something called “Leave It.”
She found “Take It” wonderfully sensible. I was not surprised. It is essentially permission to do what she was planning to do anyway.
“Leave It,” however, seemed to confuse her.
She could not understand why anyone would place something in front of her and then ask her not to have it. I confess that I found this rather amusing—not because I failed to understand the lesson, but because I have spent most of my life practicing a much older command.
Wait.
No one ever had to teach it to me.
When you have lived as long as I have, you discover that most worthwhile things arrive in their own time. Dinner always comes. Morning always comes. The truck ride eventually comes. The people always finish whatever mysterious task has distracted them and remember that a distinguished gentleman deserves attention.
I have never considered waiting to be doing nothing. I am simply giving my people enough time to finish whatever unnecessary task has distracted them and remember where their attention properly belongs.
They always do.
Later that week, I noticed something interesting.
My people were preparing their food, and Agatha had assumed her usual position beneath their feet. She stared at every movement with complete concentration, convinced that the next thing to fall would surely belong to her.
I remained several feet away because, if something intended for me appeared, I had every confidence it would be delivered properly.
Instead, I heard excitement, then concern, followed by a great deal of fuss over Agatha. Apparently, she had managed to eat something she should not have…
Again.
I sighed quietly.
One of the burdens of youth is believing that speed and wisdom are the same thing. They rarely are.
Over the next several days, similar excitement seemed to follow the little menace wherever curiosity led her. There were worried voices, careful inspections, and repeated reminders that certain things were not meant for puppies. She never meant to cause trouble. She simply believed every opportunity had to be seized before it disappeared.
I almost felt sorry for her—almost.
By the end of the week, she was practicing “Leave It” at home. I watched from the couch while the people placed a treat on the floor in front of her.
Every part of her wanted it. Her nose twitched. Her paws shifted. Even her tail seemed to lean forward. She looked as though every muscle in her body was trying to convince the rest of her to lunge.
Then she stopped.
Not because she no longer wanted the treat. She wanted it desperately. She stopped because, for the first time, she seemed willing to believe that waiting might lead to something better.
The people smiled, praised her warmly, and then handed her a different treat.
I do not believe she completely understood the lesson.
Not yet.
Understanding like that rarely comes all at once. It comes one experience at a time until, eventually, you realize the world has been trying to teach you something all along. In time, perhaps the little menace will discover what fourteen years have taught me.
There is a peculiar peace that comes with growing older. You begin to understand that not every door must be opened, not every noise must be investigated, not every object that lands on the floor belongs in your mouth, and not every good thing must be chased.
Some blessings arrive because you ran after them. But the very best ones arrive because someone loves you enough to bring them where you are.
That is the fine art of patience.
It is a lesson no puppy truly believes at first.
Perhaps, though…
the little menace is beginning to realize that the people were planning to give her the treat all along.
