A Lesson from the Old Man
“Wrinkles—that’s what I call him!” Kaitlyn scoffed, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “I can’t stand old people! Useless, just taking up space! Especially him. Whenever I walk Biscuit, I always see his face in the window. Sitting there with his pipe, reading the newspaper. A dinosaur! Newspapers—who does that anymore? Bet he doesn’t even know what a smartphone is. Always fussing over his violets and geraniums. Flowers are so last century. And those ancient wooden windows? He gets a decent pension; he could afford proper ones. Must be a miser, wasting it all. Wrinkles!” She snorted with contempt.
Kaitlyn was chatting with her best friend, Sophie, who was admiring the recent renovations in her flat. Kaitlyn and her husband, James, had just moved into the house in Willowbrook. They’d bought two flats and merged them into one. James ran a carpentry workshop and a couple of corner shops with his father. Kaitlyn didn’t work—she devoted herself to her Yorkshire Terrier, Biscuit, whom she affectionately called “my baby.” After laughing at their elderly neighbour, she dragged Sophie off to show off her new clothes.
You might scold Kaitlyn for disrespecting her elders, but she’d just roll her eyes. Life, however, had a way of teaching its own lessons. And this is how it happened.
One weekend, Kaitlyn and James were packing for their countryside cottage. James pulled up outside, deep in a phone call with a supplier. Just then, Kaitlyn’s friend Emily called—she’d brought a gift from Paris and was leaving for her own cottage.
“James, go ahead without me! I’ll catch a ride with Emily! Biscuit’s asleep—take her with you!” Kaitlyn shouted before darting off without waiting for a reply.
James, still distracted, barely nodded. But Biscuit wasn’t asleep. The moment James shut the car door, the little dog slipped out and stayed by the steps. Timid and pampered, she wanted to follow Kaitlyn, but her owner was already gone. Trembling, Biscuit pressed herself against the doorway.
Soon, a group of local troublemakers—always looking for their next drink—spotted her. One of them, known as “Spike,” grinned. “Look at that posh mutt!”
“Bet she’s worth a fortune,” another agreed.
“Easy money. Place is empty—everyone’s at their cottages. No one’ll see,” Spike decided, stepping forward.
The three circled Biscuit. The poor thing froze in terror, too scared to run. Spike reached out…
Meanwhile, chaos erupted at the cottage. Kaitlyn was sobbing, running around the garden. James had turned the car inside out—Biscuit was gone.
“Was she asleep when you left?” Kaitlyn sniffled, smudging her mascara.
“I think so,” James muttered, confused.
“What do you mean, you *think*? You didn’t check?”
“I was on the phone! But—what if she jumped out?”
They raced back to Willowbrook. Biscuit wasn’t by the door. Only Mrs. Higgins, the building’s busybody, was fussing over the flowerbed.
“Have you seen—our dog?” Kaitlyn gasped between tears.
“That fluffy one? Saw those lads trying to nick her. I shouted from my window, but they just swore at me! Didn’t dare go out—they were drunk, nasty lot.”
“You just *watched*? Couldn’t help?” James snapped.
“What, risk a beating for your dog? Old Mr. Thompson’s the brave one. Can barely walk, but he marched right out. Three big blokes, and him just skin and bones! Grabbed your dog and said, ‘Try taking her from me.’”
“Mr. Thompson?” James frowned.
“Lives below you,” Mrs. Higgins said, waving a hand.
Kaitlyn sprinted inside. Mr. Thompson—the old man she’d mocked with Sophie. The one she’d called “Wrinkles.” How could *he*, frail and slow, have stood up to them?
James knocked. The door opened to warmth and the smell of cinnamon. A small old man stood there, wearing a faded plaid shirt and knitted socks. He squinted kindly, like a storybook grandfather.
“I… We…” Kaitlyn hiccupped.
“Come in, love! She’s here, your little darling—asleep on the sofa. I read her a story till she dozed off. Poor thing was terrified. Never seen such a fancy dog. Pretty name, though I’ve forgotten it.”
“Biscuit,” Kaitlyn whispered.
She cradled Biscuit, shaking. James stayed silent, taking in the cramped flat: an iron-framed bed, faded curtains, a table with a plastic cloth. But it was spotless, homely. Fresh apple turnovers steamed on a plate. Mr. Thompson bustled about, pouring tea like a proper host.
James soon learned Edward “Ted” Thompson lived alone. His nephew had a sick daughter, so he gave most of his pension to help. “They’re family—how could I not?” he said simply. He made do with little but never complained.
Kaitlyn sat there, cheeks burning. *”Called him ‘Wrinkles.’ He gives everything to his family. Stood up for my dog—skinny, old, and fearless. And I’d have run.”*
“Visit anytime, love! Bring your little one. I’ve got a proper blanket for her—embroidered by my own mum,” Ted said, stroking Biscuit’s head.
At home, Kaitlyn locked herself in the bedroom and wept.
“What’s wrong? We *found* Biscuit!” James said, baffled.
She confessed everything—the jokes, the shame. James stayed quiet, thinking.
When Sophie next visited and spotted Ted in the garden, she giggled: “Oh, look—it’s *Wrinkles*!”
“Don’t *ever* call him that. Say it again, and you’re out,” Kaitlyn snapped.
Sophie fell silent. From then on, Kaitlyn and James helped Ted—fixing his flat, bringing groceries, inviting him to their cottage. Biscuit adored him, and he called them “my grandkids,” always flustered at gifts: “Why? I didn’t do anything special.”
A humble, kind man who taught Kaitlyn that true courage and goodness have nothing to do with age.