Columnist Neal Templin sees in his dog, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a slowing down that so far has eluded him in semi-retirement. This is not Buffy.
AlenaKravchenko/DreamstimeAfter turning 14, Buffy the Vampire Slayer has earned the right to a slow walk.
The real question is whether her 63-year-old master should be slowing down as well. There seems to be some confusion on his part about what being semi-retired means.
Earlier this year, I wrote about my long hikes in the woods with my oversized Chihuahua. Buffy, all 11 pounds of her, would leap across streams and scramble up snow-covered slopes. It was a sight to behold.
But I warned in that earlier column that dogs past a certain age can get old in a hurry, and that is exactly what has happened to Buffy. A couple of months ago, she was so hobbled that she wouldn’t come out of her crate. The vet diagnosed arthritis and advised us to treat Buffy with dog ibuprofen on her bad days. Our pooch is doing much better now.
Living in Retirement
But she’s not the dog she used to be. Nor does she seem to want to be.
We still walk close to a mile every day. But I do it at a nice, slow pace so Buffy won’t stress herself, especially when it’s hot.
That suits Buffy just fine. She is one happy dog on her walks, stopping every few feet to sniff something or inspect a much-visited tree trunk.
The young Buffy emerges when we approach another dog. She suddenly bristles and begins pulling on the leash. A corner of her brain still remembers the fight that her body isn’t up to any longer.
But then we get past the other dog, and Buffy turns back into the 14-year-old version of herself. Walk two steps. Stop and sniff. Walk another two steps. Stop and sniff.
Dogs do what they can do. We humans—at least the one writing this column—could learn from that.
Retirement came suddenly and unexpectedly for me a little over a year ago. One month, I had a full-time journalism job; the next month I was free-lancing articles like this one from my house.
I am keeping busy. I have written more than 40 stories since then, not that much below my production during the years when I was a full-time reporter.
And I’m doing it from my home office. No commute. No late nights. It’s a rather nice existence. I should be grateful, and I mostly am.
But there is part of me that still pulls at the leash every time I hear about a big, complicated story, the sort of pieces I wrote or edited when I worked full time for major news organizations. I haven’t completely let go. I still want to prove myself—to write the story that wows everybody.
It’s vain, it’s silly, but it’s what drove me for 40 years, and it hasn’t disappeared yet. How long will it take before I do a little more sniffing of trees and a little less pulling on the leash? I can’t say.
Buffy is happily snoring a few feet away from me. In a bit, it will be time for her slow walk. She is resting up. Me? I’m racing to get another story done. Maybe someday I’ll know when to stop pulling on the leash.
Write to us at retirement@barrons.com
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September 20, 2020 at 07:00PM
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His Dog May Be Slowing Down, but You Can’t Teach a Semi-Retired Journalist New Tricks - Barron's
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