**The Old Man’s Lesson**
“Wrinkles—that’s what I call him! Can’t stand old folk. Useless, just taking up space!” Kaitlyn giggled, brushing back her long auburn hair. “Especially him! Every time I walk Pudding, there he is, sitting in his window with his pipe and his newspaper. A dinosaur! Newspapers—who even reads those anymore? Bet he doesn’t know what a smartphone is. Spends all day fussing over his violets and geraniums. Flowers are so last century. And those ancient wooden windows—proper draughty, they are. He gets a decent pension; he could afford double-glazing. Tight-fisted, I reckon, wasting it all on nonsense. Wrinkles!” She snorted, rolling her eyes.
Kaitlyn was chatting with her friend Eleanor, who was admiring the fresh renovations in her flat. Kaitlyn and her husband, James, had recently moved into the house in the village of Elmford, combining two flats into one. James ran a successful business with his father—a carpentry workshop and a couple of corner shops—while Kaitlyn stayed home, doting on her Yorkshire Terrier, Pudding, whom she called “my little princess.” After a good laugh at their neighbour’s expense, she whisked Eleanor off to show her new dresses.
One might’ve scolded Kaitlyn for disrespecting her elders, but she’d have just waved them off with a flick of her wrist. Life, however, had a lesson in store for her.
One weekend, Kaitlyn and James were set to leave for their country cottage. James pulled up outside, deep in a call with suppliers, when Kaitlyn got a message from her friend Gemma—she’d brought a gift back from Milan and was heading to her own cottage nearby.
“James, go ahead without me! I’ll catch up with Gemma! Pudding’s asleep—take her with you!” Kaitlyn called, dashing off before he could answer.
James, still on the phone, barely nodded. Pudding, though, wasn’t sleeping. A second before the car door shut, she slipped out and bolted back to the doorstep. Timid and pampered, she meant to chase after Kaitlyn, but her owner had vanished. Trembling, she huddled by the stairs.
Soon, a group of rough-looking lads, always on the prowl for booze money, spotted her.
“Oi, look at that posh little mutt,” sneered one called Spike.
“Bet she’s worth a pretty penny,” another added.
“Quick—grab ’er. Place is dead; everyone’s gone to their cottages,” Spike decided, stepping forward.
The three circled the tiny dog. Paralyzed with fear, Pudding didn’t even whimper as Spike reached down…
Meanwhile, chaos erupted at the cottage. Kaitlyn was sobbing, searching frantically while James combed the car and grounds—no Pudding.
“She was asleep when you left, wasn’t she?” Kaitlyn whimpered, smudging her mascara.
“I think so…” James muttered.
“You think? You didn’t even check?”
“I was on the phone—maybe she jumped out?” he realized, paling.
They raced back to Elmford. No Pudding by the door—just the building’s busybody, Mrs. Wilkins, fussing by the flowerbeds.
“Have you… seen a little dog?” Kaitlyn choked out, gesturing frantically.
“That fluffy thing of yours? Saw some lads tryin’ to nick ’er,” Mrs. Wilkins sniffed. “I shouted from my window, but they cursed me blue. Didn’t dare go down—drunk as lords, they were. Old Mr. Bennett, though—frail as a twig, but brave as a lion. Grabbed your dog and stood his ground. ‘Try takin’ her,’ he says!”
“Mr. Bennett?” James frowned.
“Lives below you,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the door.
Kaitlyn’s stomach dropped. Mr. Bennett—the old man she’d mocked with Eleanor. The one she’d called “Wrinkles.” How could he, thin and shaky, have faced three lads for Pudding?
James rang the bell. The flat smelled of warm biscuits and lavender. At the door stood a slight old man in a faded plaid shirt and knitted socks, smiling like a kindly grandfather.
“We… I…” Kaitlyn couldn’t speak for crying.
“Come in, love! She’s here—sleepin’ on the sofa. I read ’er a story till she dozed off. Poor mite was terrified. Fancy little thing, ain’t she? Never seen one so fine. Name’s slipped my mind…”
“Pudding,” Kaitlyn whispered.
Soon, she clutched Pudding to her chest. James stood silent. The flat was humble—worn furniture, threadbare curtains, a lace-covered table with steaming jam tarts. But it was spotless, warm. Mr. Bennett fussed with the teapot, urging them to sit.
As they talked, they learned Alfred Bennett lived alone. A nephew needed help—his daughter was ill—so Alfred gave most of his pension away. “Can’t turn family away,” he said simply. He scraped by quietly, never complaining.
Kaitlyn’s cheeks burned. “Called him ‘Wrinkles.’ He gives everything to his family. Stood up for my dog when I wouldn’t have dared…”
“Visit anytime, love! Bring Pudding—I’ll put out me granny’s best linen for ’er,” he chuckled, stroking the dog’s head.
At home, Kaitlyn broke down.
“What’s wrong? Pudding’s safe!” James said.
She confessed everything—the mocking, the shame. James listened, silent.
Later, when Eleanor came by and spotted Alfred in the garden, she smirked:
“Oh look, it’s Wrinkles!”
“Don’t you dare call him that!” Kaitlyn snapped. “Say it again, and you’re out!”
Eleanor gaped. From then on, Kaitlyn and James helped Alfred—fixing his flat, bringing groceries, taking him to the cottage. Pudding adored him, and he called them “his grandchildren,” always flustered when they thanked him. “Why all the fuss? Didn’t do anything special.”
A simple, kind man who taught Kaitlyn that courage and goodness have nothing to do with age.