A hobby perhaps!
So your kids grow up, and maybe you have grandkids and maybe you don't. We don't, but we have dogs. Dogs are great. We can talk like total nut bars to them—they don't care. I can attempt to sing like Pavarotti and sound horrible—they don't care. We're geezers-in-training, so we tend to act in a totally unedited way at home. Freedom Hall, baby! Me and the bride don't care, and neither do Sailor and MacTavish.
What our canine charges do care about, is getting some grub in the morning, and then hopping in the truck to go for an adventure with the big dog. They roll like total dudes, with their dad. When the bride walks the boyz around the hood, they tend to roll like total punks: strutting, sniffing, and barking. They roll like the Princes of Silver lake Ave.
The bride's out of town, the house is a mess. Hanging with the boyz is like being stuck in a lease with two smelly thug roommates. My job as the big dog, is to at least get the boyz to the local groomer at "Details." Our groomer really can rig these guys up after a cut. I pick them up, prodigiously duke the groomer, and out we go for a new cut strut with da boyz sporting their new bandanas. Bonus!
After their recent cut, I wanted to take a picture for the bride. But not any picture. Noooooo, this would be special to surprise mom! So, I spied a Salon sign, and then rigged up the handsome lads for a photo, for mom. See, my bride will think I'm the real Prince. After I strapped the boyz to the post; snap! I had a keeper. Now, it was off to the Point Judith Lighthouse for some serious running and raising doggie hell!
Sailor jumped out of the truck first, and then MacTavish. Then they scattered into the inky, cold darkness. So here I am at 65, trying to cajole the boyz into the truck—after an hour—with treats. "Pupporoni!!!!!!!!!, Beggin strips!!!!!!!" I wail into the dark American night. No dice. They'll return when they damn well please. They know I'll hook 'em up with a treat because they know how to work me. (They play us hard.)
So, maybe I really do need a hobby, perhaps: Yoga, needlepoint, woodworking classes, sitar lessons, full contact origami, a pony, become a clicker trainer for dogs, study Aztec Anthropology, buy a leaky wooden boat, join a choir, become a computer hacker, become a television evangelist, become a full on obsessed Bass fisherman!!!!
Nah. I'll stick with talking jive to the boyz, and feeding them and cleaning up their messes, and telling Bride Cindy how adorable MacTavish was with a total stranger, even as he peed on the guy's nice leather shoes. So all you geezers-in- training out there, beware, this is your life. Forget trying to be hip. That ship sailed a long time ago. Get a dog, and start talking like a total nut bar. Embrace the geezer within!