I am a 71-year-old American man. Born in 1953 I was. When I was growing up and entering into adulthood (an ongoing process to this day), the idea of my ever having or wanting a lapdog made all things absurd look reasonable.

Well, wouldn’t you know, I’ve had a lapdog for three years and would not give him up for the world. His name is Rascal. Weighs some 20 pounds. Loves curling up in my lap. I wouldn’t change a thing.

So, what changed? Good question. 

Part of the answer is found in a definition I found of lapdogs which, while accurate, understates the sanctuary of companionship. 

“They are docile companion animals with no working function other than companionship.” 

No working function other than companionship?  You mean other than the fact a living-being loves you, likes your company, accepts you for who you are, they have little value? 

Rubbish. 

One definition of companionship I read says, “companionship is defined as a noun, a feeling, a fellowship, and friendship.”

I’ve had dogs all my adult life. Rascal is my first lapdog. His companionship is a beautiful reality in my life.

My age and life experience has allowed me to discover the gift of a lapdog. I don’t know any senior who doesn’t know loss. For some, being a senior means living your life with some or all of the family members and lifetime friends gone.

Enter the lapdog. The dog that wants to be close to you. Rascal will come over to me at my writing table, sit looking up at me, and emit a soft growl, signalling he wants some lap time (which he gets). This growl of sorts is a low soft sound that’s loving in tone, and real. He wants to be up on my lap so he can be close to me, and I can hold him, or type away with him sitting comfortably.

Like all dogs, lapdogs love you because you are you. When you get to a certain place in life, all sources of sincere love are pure gold.