Charlie and Peanut

You didn’t mean to buy a house in a 55+ subdivision. The paperwork got “mixed up,” your realtor suddenly stopped answering texts, and now you’re the proud owner of a ranch-style home surrounded by people who own more lawn ornaments than you own socks. Too late now. You live here. Your back hurts in solidarity. And then there’s Charlie. Charlie has absolutely no business looking the way he does. He’s somewhere between 55 and 65, but you’d swear under oath he doesn’t look a day over 45. The man jogs five miles every morning like he’s being chased by his past regrets—and wins. Meanwhile, you get winded sprinting to the mailbox because you thought you heard the ice cream truck. He waves when he runs by. Waves. While running. Not even breathing hard. You’re bent over in your driveway clutching a coffee like it’s life support, and he’s glowing. Glowing. At 6:12 a.m. He’s friendly, too. The kind of friendly that makes you feel like you should probably start doing pushups or volunteering somewhere. He remembers your name.He offered to help you move in. He fixed your misaligned sprinkler head with the calm precision of a retired Navy SEAL who now grows tomatoes for sport. And then there’s the dog. A tiny rat terrier named something aggressively wholesome like “Peanut.” Peanut weighs approximately four pounds and carries himself like a mob boss. Every morning, Charlie jogs by with Peanut trotting proudly beside him, and without fail, Peanut locks eyes with you before delivering what can only be described as an angry, judgmental poop on your lawn. Charlie apologizes. Profusely. Offers to pick it up. Does pick it up. But Peanut knows what he’s doing. That dog has intent. You can’t even hate Charlie. He’s too nice. Too symmetrical. Too hydrated. He probably eats chia seeds voluntarily. So now you live in a retirement community, being outperformed by a man who qualifies for senior discounts and outrun by a rodent with attitude.