Barking at Death’s Door

Harold started smoking on his 80th birthday — exactly one month ago. He stood outside his apartment, puffing a cigarette, and stared silently into the night. He blew out the smoke from a long drag and looked down at Mikey, his loyal Boston terrier. Mikey was a pint-sized gentleman’s dog with round eyes, radar ears, and a regal black and white coat. He was just as old as Harold in doggy years; the fur around his eyes streaked with grey.

Harold had gotten Mikey when he first moved into Tempus Villas, the senior living community which had been his home for the past nine years. Harold thought Mikey was a “chick magnet” when he adopted him from the pound, but it soon became clear that both Harold and Mikey preferred to stay in and watch television rather than flirt with women. Mikey never left Harold’s side, even on walks. They were the best of friends, especially since Harold never had many friends.

He was a retired thief. Unlike sexy heist movies, it was hardly glamorous work. Harold kept many secrets — mainly that he was a thief, because people don’t trust thieves. Rarely do they get married, and they also tend to die young or behind bars. Harold was almost impressed that he had survived so long and free.