At 78 years old, Benny Alvarez was done with excitement. He liked things just the way they were: coffee at 6:00 a.m., sudoku by 6:15, a walk around the block by 7, and silence—glorious, golden silence—for the rest of the day.
So when his daughter insisted he needed “a companion” and dragged him to the local dog rescue, Benny went under one condition: no yappers, no jumpers, and nothing that sheds like a snowstorm.
Naturally, that’s how he ended up with Beans.
Beans—a wiry, snaggle-toothed mutt with three working legs, two ears that pointed in opposite directions, and the energy of a toddler on espresso. The rescue volunteers said he was “spirited.” Benny said he was possessed.
The first week was chaos.
Beans chewed through Benny’s orthopedic slipper, chased the mailman twice, and somehow turned the TV on in the middle of the night (three times). Benny swore he was returning him.
But then… something happened.
Beans started waiting by the bathroom door when Benny showered. He’d nudge Benny’s hand when he coughed too hard. And every night, no matter what, Beans curled up right on Benny’s lap—sighing like he was exactly where he belonged.
Benny now starts every day with “Beans Patrol,” a twice-daily shuffle down the block where Beans trots proudly and Benny waves to neighbors he hasn’t spoken to in years. They share breakfast toast. They yell at squirrels. They nap like pros.
“He’s a menace,” Benny grumbles. “But he’s my menace.”