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Years ago, I accepted the realization that I would grow old and die alone. That’s just the way it is with some people, and I’m not bitter about it or sitting around in a deep depression because of it. It’s merely the result of choices I’ve made throughout my life.
At the ripe age of 62, in December of 2019, I discovered I was wrong.
For about two weeks, I’d debated on whether to adopt a shy, reclusive dog from the local shelter. This dog resided there for over four years, coming to the shelter at around six months old. After visiting twice, on the third day, when I drove into the compound, he came to the fence of his enclosure, his eyes bright, and his ears alert. But it was the other end that sealed the deal—he was wagging his tail so hard, his butt was jiggling! It was the first time I’d seen him without his tail tucked in fear.
I brought Krumpus home that day.
This 80-pound bundle of shy, skittish, fearful-of-everything is now the ‘chunky-monkey’ who greets me with a smile and a jiggling, tail-wagging back-end every morning.
We live in a fast-paced, hustle-and-bustle, everyone-has-their-own-lives-to-live world. The choices I’ve made throughout my life have culminated in what I call my very good imitation of a recluse. My son is an adult and has his life to live, which doesn’t include tying himself to his mother for years on end. My siblings have their lives and families. Friends have grown apart over the years, with so many of us scattering across the country. The result is a high probability of my growing old and dying alone.
Then along came Krumpus.
I’m greeted every morning with a smile and a vigorous booty-shaking. He does an adorable foot-stomping dance that always makes me laugh. No more starting the day with a grumble or two until the coffee is ready. My day begins with a laugh and a smile.
Then comes the hug. Krumpus is big on hugs. He rubs up against my legs, waiting for me to bend down, wrap my arms around him, hug him close to my chest, and give him belly rubs and rib pats. In return, he rubs his head against my neck, smiles while looking into my eyes with so much love, it’s almost breathtaking!
He says to me every morning, “You’re not alone. I’m here.”
I told myself when I adopted Krumpus that I was doing a good deed, that this dog needed someone to help him out. I patted myself on the back for building up what was undoubtedly some good karma. But I was fooling myself.
Adopting four-year-old Krumpus, who knew nothing but the inside of a shelter, hasn’t changed the ways of the world. It hasn’t solved world hunger or prevented unrest across the globe.
Adopting Krumpus has assured a reclusive old lady that she’s not alone. And that, my friends, is priceless.