In My 80s, I Found Love. But Not With a Man

Alas, by then he had already been adopted. His picture stayed up for a long while, which I found to be the case with many adorable dogs long after the pets themselves were unavailable.

Things went slowly, but I was patient, because I needed a dog small enough for me to lift, and small dogs are harder to find in shelters. I considered adopting from out of state, where dogs needing rescue (after wildfires and hurricanes) were airlifted to pre-arranged adoptions. The possibility of a mismatch was too scary.

So, the weeks ground on. I focused on two sites and tried to ingratiate myself with the people who worked there. I sought advice about how to move things along, but much of it was how to make a dog happy, rather than how to find the dog of my dreams. In comparison, people sites worry about the applicant’s personal safety, while dog sites seem more worried about the dogs.

I met Chase, a lovely poodle mix who was perfect, except his foster parent hadn’t mentioned he had to wear a diaper because he leaked. Soon after, I drove an hour north to meet Jack, sweet but sad because he was separated from his sister. Another foster parent mentioned he had turned down a potential adopter for being too old, saying he would never allow someone over 80 to adopt.

“I’m over 80,” I said, timidly, and of course he assured me I was okay, a “young” 80. But I began to wonder if some of the shelter personnel were put off because of my age. Was I too old? Should I reconsider?

A week later, at my local SPCA (Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals), I met Steffi, a soft, white, 13-pound Maltese-mix. I was warned she was shy and might not respond to me. But almost immediately, she reached up and put her front paws on my knee and wagged her tail madly. She seemed to know that I belonged to her. So I took her home.

Was that my happy ending? Well, not quite. Steffi turned out to be so protective of me that she barked and growled at anyone who came within two feet. She scared the neighbors. She menaced repairmen. She lunged at my grandson.

I hired a trainer who said I would probably have to keep her on a leash when people came to visit. Another dog expert quoted The 3-3-3 rule — 3 days to settle down, 3 weeks to show her true nature and 3 months to feel at home — which gave me hope. (By the way, people dating sites have a similar 3-3-3 rule.) But at the end of 3 months, we still had a long way to go.

It took more than a year for Steffi to become family: good company when I write (she eats her meals on my workroom floor), dinner companion (happy to share my giant chicken breast) and occasional playmate (tug of war).

An independent pup, she wanders around the house alone. I used to fret, calling her, but I realized she is just doing a last-minute check to make sure the house is secure. When she comes to bed, sometimes she sprawls and I have to nudge her to make room for my feet.

Then, I always kiss the top of her head first and run my hand over her soft fur. I hear the slight groan and creak of her breathing as she settles in, and I whisper, “good night,” my last thought that “creature comfort” is the two of us, an 86-year-old woman and four-year-old beast.