Whenever a stranger stops me during one of our walks, after some variation of “She’s so cute” and “What’s her name?”, their second question about Belle is invariably “How old is she?”
And for years, my answer has always been:
“A gentleman never discusses a lady’s age.”
99% of the time that gets a laugh, the stranger pays Belle another compliment, and everyone moves forward, a little happier in their day.
And yet part of me can’t help but wonder if I were walking along with my mother (it is Mother’s Day after all), would anyone’s second question be:
How old is she?
My mother with her youngest grandchild
(who is, in fact, a giant).
You see, like many chocolate labs, Belle started to go gray quite early.
She was as young as two or three, in fact, when tiny gray whiskers began appearing.
The main reason I began fending off the age question though, is that when I used to answer it directly, 50% of the time the stranger would tear up, telling me about how they lost their own beloved pup and how life has never been quite the same since.
(That’s a lot of unsolicited emotion to receive when you’re just going for a quick walk around the block to the wine store.)
So, like the location of Genghis Khan’s tomb (which has been unknown for almost 800 years), I determined that Belle’s age would remain a mystery, known only to me.
But here’s the thing…
Until two Saturdays ago when I took her to her new vet for some routine stuff and had to transfer her medical records, I didn’t realize I had “changed” her age via my foggy mental processes.
(this is what a vet visit looks like during quarantine)
Even though I have always given her an annual birthday party (naturally) complete with bacon cupcakes (again, naturally), I had actually scrambled her exact age in my mind.
Initially, I found it hard to believe I was mistaken.
In fact, I had to go back through old photographs and even call relatives to confirm this new reality.
Belle’s new vet––who was terrific––also didn’t help my reorientation.
Given how incredibly fit she is, he kept asking me if I was really sure about her age.
But at the end of the day, I can’t deny the physical evidence before me.
What, if any, are the consequences of this?
Well, I suppose that, instead of planning an October 20th Quinceañera this year, I’m now masterminding a Sweet Sixteen.
(Will Belle expect a red Ferrari as her birthday gift?)
(the bacon cupcakes I bake every year).
If you do the old school calculation that 1 dog year equals 7 human years, that means that as of today, Belle is 108.
(According to the American Kennel Club’s more sophisticated metrics, however, she’s a spry 98.)
Beyond this, what’s even more impressive is that chocolate labs live much shorter lives than their yellow and black cousins.
The Royal Veterinary College, in fact, has determined their lifespan’s median is only 10.7 years.
(Meaning that Belle has already beaten the odds by 5 years.)
All of this is––particularly her vet’s enthusiastic assessments––both extremely encouraging, and at the same time, deeply troubling.
While on the one hand, I “snuck” another year in there, on the other, maybe there’s not as much time left together as I thought.
I don’t envision any “Doorknob Moments” with Belle –– something The New England Journal of Medicine defines as that moment in therapy when the patient is literally one foot out the door, only to turn and reveal the most significant, vital piece of information.
I don’t think there’s anything left unsaid between us.
It’s just that I really don’t want the conversation to end…
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As Mary Oliver tells us:
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
Unfortunately, the poet doesn’t offer us anything at all about how we do that.
I really can’t tell if my discovery of the truth of Belle’s age means I’ve gained a year or lost one.
It has, however, deeply reinforced the truth that
Life is more precious because it is limited.
It’s made me take things a little less for granted.
And finally, it’s made me ask myself, again as Mary Oliver writes, now more than ever:
What is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
Namaste for Now,
P.S.
It was originally for only those on the Inner Circle waitlist, but if you’re interested and want to hang out with Stefan and me for our Calm in the Crisis Webinar on Wednesday (it’s FREE), join us HERE.
