I’m getting on in years. My mom keeps looking at me and saying, “Gracie, you’re almost six and half. You’ll be seven in October.”
Yeah, yeah. I can count. Well, actually not, because I’m a dog, but I know I’m not getting younger. I sleep more. I tolerate the cats.
My mom gets anxious because she thought her First Dog, the sainted Keesha, would live forever. Cathy and Keesha were very close. Keesha had to teach Cathy how to be a dog owner. Thankfully, she’s a quick learner, so my job is easier.
Then my mom read a news article to me. “A ten-year-old dog won the Westminster Dog Show,” she said. “For a dog, ten is the new six.”
True. At six and a half, I’m like a three-year-old. I chew socks. I play hard at the dog park. And I still like to give the cats a little grief. Especially that fuzzy Ophelia, our new housemate. She’s nine and still going strong. And Creampuff still plays like a kitten.
My mom was thrilled to realize I might be around for awhile. And she was even happier with Gail Collins’s column, which declared, “Old is in.” Collins pointed to Stump, the 10-year-old dog who won Westminster, as well as new heroes like the US Airways pilot.
I’m still young enough to chew on Cathy’s socks. Who cares about anything else?