The Sun-Herald

Happy birthday, you old mongrel

It's my dog Zach's birthday today and down at the park the poor little fella heard what you least need to hear on such a day. A man looked down at him, smiled indulgently and said: "old bloke, is he?"

As it happens, Zach's 12, which is old. If he was a human, he'd be well into his seventies by now. But I'd never believed he looked it.
I started watching him more closely as we walked. Despite the heat, my dog bounded from bush to bush, burying his face deep in every smell, turning round to grin at me with his tongue flopping sideways whenever he found a particularly pleasing one. His coat gleamed. His tail beat time with his jaunty swagger.
Zach isn't arthritic or slow or stiff, he hasn't gone grey anywhere and he's only deaf when he chooses to be. His bouncy gait and demeanour, along with his large muzzle, feet and ears, often convince strangers he's a pup.
We stopped so I could give him a drink of water and when he'd finished he looked up at me, curious about what we were doing next. I met his familiar brown gaze and then I saw what that man had seen: the years in his eyes.
Although bright as a youngster's, Zach's gaze is the only part of him that betrays his seniority. It's the same with humans and I see it a lot on the party scene. No matter how nipped and tucked and stretched a person is, you can always calculate their age down to at least the nearest five years by looking into their eyes. All their knowledge, their accumulated joys and sufferings, successes and regrets are written there and cannot be erased. There is no facelift for experience.
When the cosmetic surgery is good, it's especially weird. To confront the eyes of a 60-year-old in the carefully constructed face of a thirty-something is like looking through the eyeholes in a mask. Which I suppose is exactly what it is.
My dog's eyes are calm, confident and wise. They are the eyes of an initiate into secrets a dog can only know after more than a decade with nose to the pavement, ears to the air and daily, patient observation of the species with whom his ancestors threw in their lot long ago. In that gaze is understanding; an acceptance of the way things are. Yes, his eyes look old.
I feel sad, because it reminds me our time together will one day end, and I don't ever want say goodbye to my dearest friend. I can't imagine life without the flamboyant eccentric who likes to bury cucumbers in the garden, is frightened of his own farts, never tires of chasing flies and raindrops although he catches neither, prefers to play fetch when there is no-one watching and pretends to swim in the shallow surf by walking on his back legs while paddling with his front ones. I can't contemplate walking without him at my side, even on days like yesterday when he slipped his lead, marched off on his own to the British Lolly Shop, demanded the Schmackos he knows are kept under the counter then peed on their display as he left by way of thanks. Like everyone who meets the curiously endearing black and tan mutt with too-short legs and too-long body and comedy ears, they forgave him.
When I laugh, it's usually because of Zach. When I cry, he sniffs the tears, sighs and lies down beside me. At dinner time he spins in circles and when I play the piano he snores.
In some some ways, I'm pleased he's showing his real age at last. I'm always moved by the sight of people with their old dogs. There are two types: those who've had their dog since puppyhood, which means their care and love for that canine companion has endured over time - the way it sadly so often doesn't - or those compassionate enough to take on a rehomed dog in the final years of its life. Either way, they're good souls and I'd be proud to be counted among them.
As for Zach, he remains oblivious to the march of time. He is still absurdly, delightfully optimistic about everything. He believes the day will come when the butcher's shop allows him unlimited access, when he will be permitted to take what he wants from any cafe table he likes and that dinner will arrive early and more frequently. For him, each new day begins with the same hopes he's always had, none of their fervour lost. And any disappointments from the previous one are forgotten.
That's the crucial difference between him and those humans with ageing eyes in ever-young faces. You never see regrets in a canine's gaze, because they don't have any. A useful trick to learn from an old dog.