Our two oldest dogs, little Sammy and Lucky, can—on a good day—pick their way up the doggie steps to the sofa. Reaching their favorite spots, they curl up exhausted after prevailing upon their hind legs to finally obey and the whole dog gratefully makes it over the edge onto the cushion. When they get there at last, they rest content. At that exact moment, Molly, our youngest dog at a relatively spry 9, bounds up right past them with such velocity and strength, all of them—including Molly—seem a bit startled to see that she has missed the steps entirely, having arrived at her destination in one grand leap.
On any given day, I’m not entirely sure which dog I’m going to be: old dog or spry dog. In most regards, however, this is less worrisome than it once was as I’ve become adjusted to taking my energy as it comes, day by day. Then I joined an aerobics dance class nearby, only to discover that I had inadvertently become part of a chorus line, sandwiched between high-kickers.
It was only when my eyes were closed that I thought I was keeping up. The deafening drumbeat and relentless mirror could be fierce taskmasters, indeed, as it was my ego—not my ability—that forced me to hold it together. At the end of class, light-headed and relieved that no one had gone flying on account of me, I dragged myself home, willing my legs to take that last step to sofa’s edge.
Now, instead, I walk. Taking pride in having made such a good decision, I set my own pace, for as long as I feel invigorated rather than drained. This varies from day to day, so requires equal amounts of consciousness and truth-telling. In inclement weather, I walk the treadmill at the gym. But the dogs and I live for those blessed days when we can leash ourselves up and take a walk around the neighborhood. Cloudy and crisp; sun-warmed and toasty, refreshing drizzle: our spirits revive and we come home just tired enough.
Some days, one or another of the dogs simply cannot make it onto the sofa without help. If Dan or I fail to notice, he or she may be found, who knows how many minutes later, standing patiently if dumb-founded, front paws on the top step, back paws frozen a step behind.
This is what worries me about my own aging. When despite the strength of my will, the things I want cannot flex to my shifting needs, but require some minimal level of physical competence that is eluding me. I worry about the future, anticipating the day that someone finds me patient but dumb-founded, standing stock still at the bottom of the stairs.
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