Getting Older, Getting Better

I don't know what the super nice vets are putting in Leo's chemo, but whatever it is I'd like some please. Leo is in the throes of enjoying a second childhood, and does not seem bothered at all by the fact that he is apparently suffering from canine Alzheimer's.

Old puppy habits that have lay dormant for years have suddenly reappeared. He stands at the door and barks, demanding walks in all sorts of hideous weather. He has returned to his old sleeping spot downstairs with his head resting on the edge of the family room couch. He lays his snout on the table while we're eating, undeterred by our repeated efforts to shove him away. He grabs a sock or two while I'm doing laundry and parades around the house with them stuffed in his mouth, as if he has just caught the "big one." And he has rediscovered his most annoying habit of seeking out small stuffed toys and ripping them to shreds. Even fat Manny is beginning to find Leo annoying.

It's reassuring to me though. I'm almost looking forward to growing old (although I could do without the illness component), to reaching that point where I just don't give a shit. Leo is blissfully ignorant. He has no clue that he has regressed, no idea that his behavior is a bit inappropriate for a dog of a certain age. He is young and carefree again, satisfying his basest instincts with pure abandon. He is enjoying whatever moments he has left.

I was talking to my recently widowed octogenarian friend the other day. Unlike Leo, he still has all his faculties, and is painfully aware of all the constraints placed upon him by society in general and his children in particular. He has certainly not regressed to childlike behavior, but he has, like Leo, lovingly given the finger to anyone who tries to tell him what not to do.

His children are struggling with the fact that he is enjoying female companionship even though his wife -- their mother -- has not yet been gone a year. I'm not sure if it's in a rule book of some kind, but apparently there's something magic about a year. My friend is eighty-three, though, and, still capable of performing complex mathematical equations, he is painfully aware that a year in his life can be quite a significant percentage of the time he has left. A devoted husband for years and still a devoted father, he is enjoying the moment. Why on earth would he wait?

When I'm with my old friend, I find myself wishing I was closer to his age. Hands down, he's a better companion than any of the guys in my wheelhouse. Frankly, so is Leo, but he's not the kind of guy you can take to a nice restaurant.

I am learning a lot from my old friends.