If you’ve wandered into this blog to gain inspiration to accomplish some life deed or if you’re seeking some profound bit of knowledge to spark some sort of life epiphany, relax; it ain’t gonna happen today—at least not here. Today I’m gonna compare me to my dog--our ages to be more exact. However, if you believe you can launch an epiphany from that, then stick around.

         For those of you who have never graced these virtual pages before, I’ve got an eight year old black Lab named Max—or he’s got me; we’re still figuring that one out. Anyway, through the years he and I have grown quite fond of each other. To say we are inseparable is only a gnat’s hair from being the gospel truth. Most days he is glued to my side. When I take a ride into town to do stuff you usually do in town, he goes with me. As I do my people thing in the places I go to, Max curls up in the back seat of my Titan pick-up truck and snoozes, which isn’t a bad thing since when I fold up the back seat he has a veritable dog run back there.

         Being close, we have the opportunity to do a little staring at each other. I have studied his chin recently as he slept on the floor beside me. I haven’t a clue what he has studied about me, but I am a little disconcerted as I consider he often joins me in the bathroom. I’ve noticed grey hairs are beginning to populate the side of his muzzle and beneath his chin. At first there were just a few solitary invaders which were over-powered by the mass of deep black hair that covers him—and our floor and furniture. He is so black he shines like polished coal. We have black hair everywhere. I’ve opened the refrigerator door to find a wayward black follicle perched on a shelf—yes, I know it’s disgusting. Please know I made the appropriate “yuk” sound when I discovered it. Nevertheless the invasion of grey hair on my dog, Max, is quite noticeable, especially now that it has invaded in more number and with a concerted effort.

         It’s obvious to me that Max is no longer a puppy. The energy and excitement of puppy-hood has long disappeared from his nature. Although he is playful at times, it’s more of a grown-up play. I suppose he doesn’t play as much anymore because I don’t play as much. I no longer run and jump and play with him, not because I’m a party-pooper; I don’t run and jump and play because I happen to be an old codger. I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened. The important thing is that Max really doesn’t seem to care that much. At eight years of age, he is quite content to curl up and sleep on my feet, which is a good thing because it gives him his rest and it keeps my feet warm. And, accompanying this change in activity apparently is the onslaught of grey hair.

         The invasion of grey hair on Max’s muzzle and chin testifies that age has established a beachhead on my dog. He is growing older. I don’t like to dwell on Max’s mortality. I’m not particularly fond of the idea he is aging much more rapidly than I am. It has been said that each year is like seven years to a dog, in terms of lifespan. Using that analysis, being eight years old would make Max the equivalent of 56 years. He’s sneaking up on me, who claims 63 years on this planet. That means on his next birthday he and I will almost be the same age (since I’ll sneak in one more birthday before that time.)

         This disparity in age caused me to do a little more research on the calculation of dog years. What I discovered is that the one to seven ratio may not be quite accurate. In fact, one dog expert contends that dogs age at a rate of 10.5 to one for the first two years of life and then at a rate of four to one thereafter. Considering that theory, Max would be a middle-aged 45 today. This mode of calculation would also put Max and me at the same age of 71 when he is 14.5 years—that’s over six years away. For right now, I'm still older than him. All I can say is that old dog and me have got a bunch of livin’ to do in the next six years. I wish he was eligible for Social Security; I could use the extra check.