How
old did you say he is, my visit-
ing
nurse asked me the other day?
He’s
going on nineteen, I told her.
That’s
very old for a dog, she went
on
with a tone of amazement. Chihua-
huas
are known for their longevity, I
proudly
replied (though I too was sur-
prised
by his enduring quality). He’s
got
cataracts and can barely see.
He
has missing and bad teeth too.
Like
me, he has arthritis in his hips,
and
has lost a lot of weight lately.
When
I announced his eighteenth
birthday
on Facebook last July, my
stepdaughter
who has known him
all
his life, noted that it was his
stubbornness
which kept him alive.
And
she was right, strong-willed and
tenacious
beast, I would add, who
loves
to pee in the apartment after
he
eats. Too late to break him of bad
habits.
Same as me at seventy-three,
I
must admit. Mind you, it was a li-
censed
nurse I was talking to. And
she
asked me if I had problems urina-
ting
myself—slow flow or urgency?
It
was then a poignant thought struck
me
broadside: In dog years, I
figured,
I
would be five-hundred and seventy
one.
And as
the old saying goes,
sup-
pose
I’m not
in
too bad
a shape for the
shape
I’m in.
-30-
Chris
Hanch 2-4-2020
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