My oldest dog, Gavin, will turn 10 next month. The same month I turn 50. And while neither of us could be confused with a spring chicken, we both still have our moments. The fact that they are fewer and farther between just make them more memorable.
Our wrestling matches over the years have become abbreviated and more subdued, each of us heeding the aches and pains as they remind us of the passage of time. But sometimes, we forget ourselves.
We’ve all had moments where our older dog spontaneously combusts into puppyhood. A game of fetch that suddenly morphs into a game of chase where the dog is running with his butt tucked so far under that it hits his chin with each stride. Or an impromptu game of tug that suddenly takes on the scope of The Battle of Agincourt . Games that leave our lungs huffing and puffing from exertion and laughter and our jaws sore from smiling. Moments that remind us of the reason we decided to get a dog in the first place, moments where both animals forget that their time together is far too short.
I’m looking forward to autumn now, watching the dogs exuberance during those first, crisp, fall mornings as they remember what being a dog is all about, a brisk roll in something stinky followed by romping both far and wide to spread the smell in the dense air. It’s what life’s all about.