YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLDER when you’ve been the custodian of four or five dogs and cats in succession, each one a distinct personality and a charmer. Or a hellion charmer. There are plenty of those.
At what age does it occur to you that your pet might outlive you rather than the other way around? Once you cross the 75 barrier, these are thoughts that can’t be wished away. Yes, you may have lots of time left. But you can’t help but notice that certain things that seemed possible, even probable, now have become unreachable.
Such as learning Spanish. Reading all the Russian novels you’ve dragged from abode to abode since your teens or twenties. Tossing out those old photographs of your parents’ friends. Who on earth are these people? You’ll probably dump them back in their carton, even the Polaroids that have faded to shadowy pastels.
I faced this question when nearly 16-year-old Chaco died of cancer. Chaco was the best dog in just about every way. He would thread his way through the chicken yard at a snail’s pace so he wouldn’t upset the hens. He knew the difference between tree squirrels — never chase — and ground squirrels — OK to kill. He would sit at the entrance to a county building as I covered a board of supervisors meeting and not move a muscle. If someone talked to him he would be friendly but reserved. I’m on duty, he would say. My duty is to wait.
When you have the perfect dog, it’s hard to imagine having another. But you also sense that upswelling of love lying in wait for something furry and fun. It’s like a current that needs to go somewhere, a flood held back until the dam breaks.
Here was my logic: If I get a wonderful dog and I die, someone will want that wonderful dog. He won’t languish in a shelter, unloved and miserable.
Shay is not Chaco, not by any stretch. He’s his own guy, nervier, more hyper, but sweet. He gets me out of the house twice a day to take him to a dog park, where I chat with people and throw balls so he can leap in the air. Instead of me staring at my computer, we go for a walk along a shady creek, watching for quick lizards and lazy snakes. The cats love him (though they glared when I brought home a puppy. What are you thinking!)
A friend has taken a more responsible path: her last three cats were adopted from owners who died. The youngest pair was ten when they came into Elisabeth’s life. The two brothers had lived on a houseboat in Sausalito. Older and wiser, they were fine adapting to a life without San Francisco Bay at their paw-tips.
Being alive means making new memories, not clinging to old ones. A charming hellion is in your future, not just your past.
Elisabeth is now in an assisted living facility. She adopted another elderly cat after the brothers died. The facility has a one-pet rule for each resident, which means a lot of dogs and cats also live there.
And it makes sense: Many studies have shown the health benefits of having a pet. Pet ownership results in lower blood pressure, anxiety, cholesterol, better cognitive function, and more opportunities to socialize.
When I was in my early twenties, I lived next door to a couple in their late seventies. Their adored dog had died, and they told me that they would never get another dog because they wanted to treasure his memory. At the time, I thought this was sad. Now it seems tragic.
Being alive means making new memories, not clinging to old ones. A charming hellion is in your future, not just your past. Go meet her.
What does a longer lifespan mean to you? Two talented columnists tag-team every Friday to tackle the challenges that inform your choices — whether you’re pushing 17 or 70. Recent Stanford Center on Longevity Visiting Scholar Susan Nash looks at life experiences through an acerbic personal lens, while longtime writer and health reporter Tony Hicks takes the macro view to examine how society will change as the aging population grows ever larger. Check in every Friday to expand your vision of living the long game and send us your feedback, column suggestions and ideas for future coverage to newsroom@baycitynews.com.