“I’m old enough to be your grandfather”

—“I had a dream about you the other morning,” I’d say to my pretty college-age friend at the kennel where I used to daycare Killian.
“Don’t worry,” I’d say; “it was clean.”
“We were walking hand-in-hand up a bombed out city street picking our way through a dusty detritus of crumbled bricks.
I was the token male, protecting you from the thugs and rapists that people city streets.”
Although at age-76, I doubt I’d be much protection.
“I can take care of myself,” she’d say. And she probably could. She’s the daughter of a business owner, and has moxie and self-confidence. Her father refuses to hand the business over to her: “too opinionated,” he says.
How I became friends with her I don’t know, although I’d like to think my never hitting on her mattered.
I also almost immediately gave her my speech, the same speech I gave to almost every pretty young girl at that kennel.
She was wary at first, but “listen to him!” said one of the kennel co-owners, age 48, also cute. “This is extremely important. We don’t want you to make a mistake!”
“Yer gonna get married someday,” I told her. “Whatever ya do, marry someone who can make ya laugh! Do that and yer in it for the long-haul. Frustration, jealousy, exasperation; they’re all gonna happen. But if he can make ya laugh, you’ll get over ‘em!”
“‘No pretty girl will smile at you!’ I was told long ago, and here you are smiling at me.”
She’d smile harder, pretty brown eyes askance, embarrassed I backhandedly told her she was pretty. Plus I also wasn’t hittin’ on her.
“What I should be asking is are you engaged yet?”
She has a boyfriend, and he wants to do the whole kibosh: diamond engagement ring, bended knee, etc.
“Well,” I said; “89 bazilyun buckaroos doesn’t buy love!”
That kennel co-owner burst into “Can’t buy me love,” by the Beatles. My friend also doesn’t want the 89 bazilyun dollars.
No bended knee for This Kid, although mainly because I didn’t know how.
“I want you to be happy,” I’d say; “and I know how marriage can tangle you in commitments and entitlements. Actually enjoying each other, which probably occurred before marriage, gets lost with marriage.
My wife and I managed 44&1/2 years, but my sister tried four times. Marriage can destroy a friendship, and I’m no longer who I was before my wife died. She’d probably be jealous of my flirting.”
So there we were, enjoying each other’s company — or so it seemed.
I haven’t seen her in a while, since I no longer have a dog; i.e. I no longer use that kennel.
That girl told me to drop by. So I tried a couple times, but no one answered their door, etc.
My childhood has me thinking they’re avoiding me, but they also may be out back.
I visited other times, but that co-owner often was around, or my friend was in their lobby.
I ask myself how did I ever become friends with a pretty young girl? She’s college-age.
“I could be your grandfather!” I tell her.

• That girl is a millennial = 20 years old.
• “Killian,” a “rescue Irish-Setter,” was my most recent dog. He made age-11, and was my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. A “rescue Irish-Setter” is usually an Irish-Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. Killian was a divorce victim. By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He was my fifth rescue. (Yet another dog lost to canine cancer.)