When my children were young, they found a variety of ways to taunt each other. My daughter enjoyed tormenting her younger brother, not by hitting or yelling but by doing something that would stop him dead in his tracks. What sort of skill would have such an impact? The simple art of staring.

Many times, I slammed on the brakes when my son would yell, “MOM! She’s doing it again. She’s staring at me!” By the time I looked into the rearview mirror to see into the back seat, I saw tears streaming down my son’s face, while my daughter had an almost angelic smile on hers.

I’d almost forgotten about those instances until a few days ago when my mother yelled from den: “JOY! Get in here. She’s staring at me again!” I rushed down the hall. Who could be staring at my mother?

Another simple answer: the dog. Yes, our precious, aging Pekingese named Wicket, otherwise known as “the little princess.” Wicket has her own special bed, her own special food, and her own special chair, and when my mother was in the nursing facility, Wicket decided that the worn blue recliner that is my mother’s favourite felt much more comfy than her usual overstuffed rocker. Unfortunately, Wicket’s preferences haven’t changed. And though there isn’t a human being alive who can best my mother, the tiny dog seems to have no trouble at all.

Every morning when my mother comes into the den, she calls ahead while I’m cooking breakfast.

“Where is she, Sister? Is she in my chair?”

Nine times out of ten, the dog is snoozing on the cushion of that worn recliner.

“She’s got my chair again, hasn’t she?” my mother will ask.

When Wicket hears the rattle of the wheels of Mother’s walker, she looks up, snorts, then turns over and finds her cushy place again. She doesn’t offer to move.

“Look at that. She knows good and well that’s my chair.”

Not even Mother can intimidate her out of that chair. And she’s tried every trick she knows to do it. She’s sweet-talked her, bribed her with treats, yelled at her, all to no avail. Wicket can out-stubborn my mother any day of the week.

Every afternoon, Wicket sits in front of the recliner and stares at my mother, an unwavering stare that says, “Get up. I want that chair.”

“Joy,” my mother calls, “Can’t you do something? Just look at her. She won’t leave me alone.”

And heaven forbid if my mother gets up to go to the bathroom. Wicket doesn’t even wait for her to get out of sight before she jumps up into the recliner and begins to scratch at the cushion to make her bed.

“That little devil,” my mother says.

This ritual goes on until evening. As soon as we’ve finished dinner and Wicket decides it’s time for mother to relinquish her claim to the recliner, she will walk to the TV tray that sits by the chair, nose around it for a minute, then use her little flat nose as a sort of mini-backhoe. She scoots the tray away from the chair, then sits and stares at my mother.

“JOY! Come get this dog. She’s staring at me again!”

When all else fails, Wicket will come running to find me. She will bark and run back into the den, jump into the chair next to mother’s, sit up very straight and stare at her. She will keep staring—at eye level since she’s in the other chair—until my mother sighs, cusses, and gathers her things to take back to the bedroom.

Being outdone by the pooch does have one advantage. I’ve never seen my mother move faster than when she’s “gettin’ it” down the hall as fast as those wheels will turn to claim the chair while Wicket’s outside sunning herself. Mother strikes hard and fast and settles herself into place.

And when Wicket comes bounding inside and runs over to the recliner, I’d swear I could see a rather malicious grin begin to take shape on that precious little face.