There comes a point in every gentleman’s life when he must accept that the world is not going to reorganize itself according to his preferences. After two or three weeks, I reluctantly reached that conclusion. The little menace was not visiting. She was not being evaluated. She was not, despite my private hopes, being returned to whatever magical place puppies originate. She had become a permanent member of the pack. I did not vote on this decision. Then again, no one asked me. That is one of the unfortunate realities of retirement. You may possess age, wisdom, and impeccable judgment, yet still discover that strategic decisions are made by those technically in charge. I am not the Alpha. I am simply the wise old elder whose advice is sought far less often than it should be.
Fortunately, my people had also concluded that the little menace required civilization. They called it “crate training.” An excellent idea. Every respectable member of society should spend time learning self-control. Her classroom was a large wire sanctuary in the living room. She appeared to regard it as a gross violation of her constitutional rights. I regarded it as one of mankind’s finer inventions. While she occupied her educational retreat, I could once again enjoy uninterrupted naps, leisurely inspections of the house, and the simple pleasure of walking from one room to another without acquiring an enthusiastic shadow.
I also resumed another important ritual of civilized living. Every few weeks, my people escorted me to the groomer for what they called “a tidy-up.” An excellent practice. A proper gentleman should always be neatly turned out. My face was trimmed so I could see what little there remained to see. My paws were kept tidy. My coat was clipped to a respectable length befitting a distinguished fellow of advancing years. The little menace, meanwhile, appeared to be cultivating the appearance of a wandering Wookiee with a hippie complex. Her coat grew in every conceivable direction at once. She resembled an animated dust mop with opinions. Apparently, this was considered “cute.” I remain unconvinced.
Our mornings also improved considerably. Each day my people attached her leash and departed for what they insisted on calling a walk. The little menace, however, referred to it as “Smells.” An oddly accurate description. By my careful calculations, they were gone for precisely forty-two minutes each morning. Allowing for the endless stopping, sniffing, investigating, and necessary potty breaks, I estimate they covered approximately one-point-eight miles. I never actually measured it, of course, but I would wager my estimate is accurate to within five percent. Fourteen years of observation have taught me to trust my calculations. Whatever distance they traveled, it afforded me forty-two uninterrupted minutes of peace. Glorious peace.
On weekends, matters improved even further. My people loaded the little menace into the truck and vanished for three or four hours. They returned muddy. Sometimes wet. Occasionally carrying leaves in places where leaves ought not to be. The puppy always bounded through the front door with enough stories to fill a library. Then, quite miraculously, she collapsed into an exhausted heap and slept for most of the remainder of the day. I cannot adequately express my admiration for this arrangement.
Between the wire sanctuary, the forty-two minutes of morning silence, and the occasional afternoon of complete solitude, the past week or so had become… tolerable. Not ideal. Certainly not the peaceful retirement I had carefully planned. But tolerable.
At my age, one learns that contentment rarely arrives in perfect form. Sometimes it comes disguised as a sleeping puppy.
