For several days last week, Rio developed a new routine.
Instead of taking his usual spot beside me while I worked, he climbed directly onto my lap.
Not once.
Not by accident.
Repeatedly.
Rio is a reasonably sized goldendoodle (40 lbs.), which means “lap dog” is more of a personal belief than a physical reality.
But he seemed unconcerned by logistics.
He’d climb up, lean against me, and settle in as though he’d finally returned to his rightful place.
The interesting part wasn’t Rio.
It was Remi.
Because the moment Rio got comfortable, Remi would appear.
No toy.
No warning.
Just a flying leap and an immediate attempt to grab Rio’s tail or the hair along his back.
Rio’s response was remarkably consistent.
Nothing.
No wrestling.
No chasing.
No interest whatsoever.
Just the expression of someone trying to enjoy a conversation while a younger sibling repeatedly pokes their shoulder.
Remi would try again.
Rio would continue pretending he wasn’t there.
Remi would become more determined.
Rio would become more annoyed.
I was sitting in the middle of all of this, trying not to laugh.
Because it felt oddly familiar.
Sometimes all we want is a quiet moment.
A place to settle.
A chance to enjoy something without interruption.
And then life shows up tugging on our sleeve, demanding participation in an activity we never signed up for.
The interruption isn’t necessarily malicious.
It’s just persistent.
And usually much more enthusiastic than we are.
The thing I admired most was Rio’s commitment to the original plan.
He didn’t abandon the cuddle because something noisy appeared.
He just kept returning his attention to what mattered to him.
Eventually, Remi gave up.
Eventually, Rio got his moment.
And honestly, there’s probably something useful in that.
Not every distraction deserves a response.
Sometimes the best strategy is to stay focused on what you climbed into the lap for in the first place.
