Red and I were walking on Main Street the other day when we passed a glass window and we both looked at it together, I was startled to see an old man and his dog walking side by side in the golden afternoon.

“Red, we are getting old, my friend,” and Red turned his head to me and looked up, his tail wagged a bit, as it always does when he knows I am talking to him. I know I am getting old, but I didn’t realize until a few months ago that Red is getting old, also. And of course he is. We are getting old, and no old man had a better companion to get old with than me.

This weekend, one of the boys from the St. Joseph’s home in New York looked at Red, who he met last year, and said with the honesty of youth: “Red, you are getting old.” People can see it now.

Red’s legs cannot go go as fast or as far they did a couple of years ago, he is getting massages and taking pills and laser treatments. We are getting old together, and handling it well, taking our medicine, living our lives, we have good lives filled with love and meaning. No one can ask for more than that. Red will be around a good while, as I expect to be, but there is no question that we are getting older, or that we are getting older together.

And that is fitting, because Red and I are thick as thieves, I always saw these old men with their old dogs and felt admiration, even envy. They moved in sync, like a school of fish, and had this great and often unspoken love, they had a connection beyond consciousness, communication beyond words. Much as Red and I have.

Red is valiant in his work with the sheep, and then, like me after a long hike, he comes into my study and collapses in a heap underneath my chair, he does not move for hours. It is getting difficult for him to hop up into the car, and after one or two outruns, I am careful to call him in.

His age perhaps is accentuated by the tornado that is Fate, she can run forever and zooms past Red as if he were standing still.  She never tires or limps. Red is stoic, he has great dignity.  He will never give up on his work. I sometimes see him struggling to keep running, we know one another too well.

If he knows he is getting old, he never shows it, and in that sense, he is an inspiration to me. I do not do old talk, I dislike it, it is patronizing, even bigoted. It is too easy to confuse weakness of the spirit with weakness of body and soul. I have more energy and spirit than I ever had.

Red’s therapy work will soon become his work, he has the heart and soul for it, he is good at it, it is easier on his legs than running after sheep.

I know where I am, but it does not define me, and will never define me. That is the first death, the death of hope and the spirit. I am happier now than I have ever been, and my life overflows with love and meaning. If that is what it means to be old, I will take it, and happily.

Maria is younger, she is not getting old yet, she  can garden on her knees for  hours and haul sacks of soil and mulch around like bags of popcorn. She is shocked when her toes ache.  I can’t do many of those things any longer, and I am beginning to accept it, hopefully with honor and dignity.

People are beginning to open doors for me, once in awhile, and picking up things for me when I drop them. I feel myself shuffling, doing that old man’s walk. I look in the mirror sometimes, and am startled to see that aging man looking back at me. Who is he, anyway? And what is he doing in my bathroom mirror looking into my eyes?
Age has give me something I was looking for my entire life. It has given me back myself, lost in the swirl of life and trouble. It has given me wisdom and humor and experience and failure and success and joy and sadness and loss and gain. I fit into my own clothes now, I fit into my own soul.  I am bringing the elixir back. I have the life I longed for, even if it not the one others chose for me, or the one I expected myself.

I am becoming the person I hoped I would be. I have let go of the people I hurt along the way, and of the people who hurt me. Red and I are not the same thing, he is an animal and I am not, but our souls are conjoined, we are on this trip together, he walks alongside of me everywhere I go, a witness and a comfort. That is the joy of the dog, the good ones serve, when given the chance, from beginning to end.

Red is a gracious and accepting creature. He knows how to be quiet, how to love with dignity, how walk with me through this chapter of our life. He loves much, and is much loved.

He is a dog, and that means he will most likely not live as long as I will, and perhaps not for too many more years. Working border collies live life at a fast and exhausting piece, I have seen them wear out.

I don’t dwell on the loss of dogs, to love dogs is to know pain and sorrow as well as love and connection. So be it. That is part of the deal, the contract, and I honor it.

“Red,” I told him the other day while we were walking in the dogs, “I promise you that I will never be one of those people who say they will never get another dog because they loved the one they lost so much. If you die,  I will always get another dog because I love you so much, I can’t pay you a greater compliment and if you love a dog more than yourself, it seems to me that is the only choice for me.”

He gave me a curious, tilted-head look, something in my voice, perhaps, made him curious, struck him as odd.

Red is a spirit dog, he came for a reason and will leave when his work is done, that is up to him, and I will never turn my love for him or time with him into a misery. I will celebrate his life and give thanks for my time with him and I will not remember the anniversary of his birth or death. That has no meaning for him.

In the falling of a paw on the ground, ever rings the temple bells. Someday the sun and the moon will argue over who will walk with Red and give him the love he needs and so deserves. I will cherish our time together and trust it will be long.

Go running through this world, sweet dog, giving love, giving love.