25. I Can Fly Again: Ignore Aging As Much as Possible
When our sweet Chaser was around 15-1/2, we finally accepted that she could no longer keep up with Zoey during walks. So, we began to walk the Girls separately. (Though it’s quite amazing how one can somehow grow accustomed to walking with both arms fully extended–one in front, one in back–trying to accommodate the opposite speeds of two dogs at different ends of the age spectrum. Dislocated shoulders, anyone?).
The HH and I agreed to alternate who took whom so we humans each had a semblance of exercise, too, every other morning while walking Zoey.
When it came to Chaser, the speed was more like being trapped in the apartment while visiting with your slightly demented grandparent–that sense of guilty impatience that you know is unfounded, yet still bubbles to the surface when she hands you a shaking teacup or he takes ten minutes searching for a misplaced word.
To her credit, Chaser was always consistent–one paw, then the next, and the next and the next–but it could be excruciating to wait for her as she toddled along, stopping to admire the bushes or (literally) smell the roses. I’m always reminded of my friend Michelle’s comment when I asked what it was like to have an older dog: “More sniffing, less walking.”
Chaser modelling the older dog’s motto.
But here’s the strange thing.
Chaser herself didn’t seem to notice that there had been a change. She still attempted to execute her little leap off the final step on the way down the stairs, oblivious to the fact that she was now directed by a human holding her collar.
When it came to her toys, she had all but lost interest, yet when we hit on one she loved, such as the knotted ball with its multicolored tubes intertwined to form a rubber sphere, she leapt upon it as she would have when younger, even though half the time, her rear legs gave out too soon and she ended up in a sitting position with the ball just out of reach.
One day, we went to a nearby field that was entirely enclosed and often used by dog owners as an impromptu off-leash area. It was early morning and no one was around–a perfect opportunity to allow Chaser to roam freely. I shut the fence behind us and leaned over to unlatch the leash, not noticing that the field was occupied by a dozen or so seagulls who’d come to find their own breakfast.
And then, Chaser was off like a rocket. She’d completely forgotten that she could no longer run, and took off full speed toward the gaggle, as always, hoping that this would be the time she’d catch one.
As I watched her stream across the grass, my eyes teared up with wonder. How did she summon such energy for the pursuit? She was, once again, her younger self in my eyes, flying across the field, ears flapping behind her as she ran in her geriatric, see-saw fashion, moving from front to back legs almost as if each pair were attached to a fulcrum in her center.
Chaser’s distinctive run.
Nevertheless, she was flying.
And it was beautiful.
The birds dispersed, she reached the empty space, and she stopped. She turned toward me, eyes glistening as she panted, and limped back to where I stood.
Dogs have this incredible ability to forget how old they are. For that brief interlude, Chaser was a younger dog again, full of the same energy and stamina, the same anticipation of the chase, the same hopefulness for the future. She was operating from the heart, not the body. How miraculous it would be if we humans could do the same!
It can be tough to summon this kind of optimism when one’s body suggests a different story. I often think about my dad and his physical decline in the very last years of his (extremely long) life.
Despite his many shortcomings, one thing my father modeled beautifully was how to age well. Throughout his life and into his early 90s, he walked an hour every day (even when working 12-hour days at his butcher shop; he’d come home, eat dinner, then head out for his walk in the dark evening air).
And he, like Chaser, seemed oblivious to his age. He had a habit of singing while he walked, oblivious to any startled pedestrians within shouting distance who’d glance over at the strange old man with the Polish accent, belting out Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” (In recent years, with all the studies around the vagus nerve and how it can preseve health, I realize he was exercising it in the best way possible).
These walks continued, even after retirement, and even when he first entered an assisted living residence.
Back during my studies for my Masters degree, I had a friend who was 40 years old. At the time, to my callow 22 year-old self, 40 seemed ancient. Yet Carol had more energy than most of my peers, giggled easily, seemed not to understand that 40-somethings don’t wear mini skirts and would often show up to class sporting pigtails or bright ribbons in her hair.
What I initially pegged as eccentricity was later understood more clearly as pure joie de vivre, a sense of life and youthfulness that somehow never left her when she became an adult, despite the usual burdens of job, spouse, home ownership or children (the one thing she didn’t have was a dog, a shortcoming it took me some time to forgive).
Yet I, like virtually everyone else who met her, wanted to be around Carol as much as possible. She exuded fun and fully enjoyed every moment of her experience. She seemed unaware she was (substantially) older than the rest of us, and her buoyant energy surpassed that of every one of the other, much younger, students. In other words, chronological age defied.
So I’ve determined to forget my age for a week. Maybe this will mean I dance like a teenager again, or that I speak to someone decades younger than me as if we are contemporaries. Or maybe, like Chaser, it will mean that I ignore the minor physical impediments I normally allow to rule my days, instead moving ahead as if my body were the old Ricki, the one before the knee problems, the backaches, the shoulder strains.
Time to go chase some geese.
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Follow up to last week’s challenge: Hang on to Hope
I know it can be tough in these incredibly crazy times, but I do believe hope is essential if we’re ever to come out the other side intact (both physically and psychologically).
When I feel like I’ve lost hope, there are a few things that help. And I hope they’ll help you, too.
Remember a time when you thought all was lost, and how you got through it. Maybe even more importantly, remember THAT you got through it.
For me, one of the most traumatic events in my life was when my father disowned me because he didn’t approve of my first serious relationship (I know, pretty severe. And, as it turns out, undeserved. My BF was a perfectly lovely young man, and is now a perfectly lovely older man–we’re still friends).
Literally within the space of an hour, I had to leave my parents’ home (where I’d been staying for summer holidays from university), return to another city and find both a job and place to live, all within two weeks before school started up again. I had absolutely no idea how I’d manage it, and I felt as if the world ended right then.
Not surprisingly, I cried the entire time, couldn’t sleep and felt sick to my stomach. But I did it. I applied to any and every job, I scoured the papers (this was long before the internet) for rental listings, I pushed through job interviews and basically convinced someone to hire me. I managed.
When I look back on those times–just as I look back on the days after my separation from the Starter Husband, the days after my mom died, or the days after losing lifelong friendships because of Covid–I feel sad for the person who endured those traumas. But that person is no longer me. The realization allows me to move forward with the hope that this, too, shall pass.
As one of my mentors says, “You have survived 100% of the challenges so far in your life, no matter how hard they seemed at the time. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here now.” In other words, no matter how difficult or hopeless the situation appears, chances are you will survive it, too.
2. Speak to someone who makes your heart feel good.
I’m always uplifted by positive people, even in the worst of times. I’m not talking about those annoying Pollyanna-ish folks, but rather those people who know me well and can remind me that life isn’t 100% awful. If you have a person like that in your life, call them or (better yet) visit them. You’ll both feel better afterwards.
No people in your life? Well, that’s why I write about dogs: dogs are always there for you. Dogs are the best. Hug a dog, play with a dog, talk to a dog, cry on a dog’s shoulder–it doesn’t really matter. Any time spent with a dog will make you feel better. (If you’re a cat person, you can try this with cats. But try at your own risk).
3. This one’s a bit hokey, but I’m including it because it works for me: think about what you have to be grateful for.
When I find myself wallowing in “woe-is-me,” writing a list of at least ten real things in my life for which I’m grateful does help (because writing is always better to embed the feeling in your brain than just thinking about it). I try to focus on actual, tangible details like “I can still run up and down the stairs” or “I was able to mix up a fabulous stew without worrying about the cost” or “I love those little crooked teeth and crazy whiskers on Zoey’s chin” because acknowledging the positive reality invariably lifts my spirits.
Obviously (or if it wasn't obvious before now, this is me making it so), I’m not a doctor, psychiatrist or mental health professional, so this is not medical or mental health advice. These things work for me, but they’re not a prescription for anyone else–they may or may not work for everyone. And if you are feeling truly hopeless, I would urge you to contact a health professional asap.
How did you do over the past week?
As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoy Be the Dog, please consider recommending it to someone else–or becoming a paid subscriber to support me and my writing. I’d be eternally grateful either way!