Dog Years

Amidst other actual concerns—AI reforming society, the start of World War III, ungoverned and untrained fascist abductors, the warmest winter for half the country and the coldest winter for the other half—I am thinking of none of it. Instead, I’m worried about my dog. The reason being: today is her birthday.

I’ve dreaded today for years. The dismal and immutable calculus has had today as an important day since we adopted Kona.

Today Kona turned 5 years old. Which in dog years means she is 35. This means in dog years, she is now older than I am.

It goes without saying (but I’ll say it) that the dog year conversion is not even an inexact science. It’s more like reductive, back-of-the-napkin math. But then when I attempted to research exact methods, the articles talked about things like “DNA methylation” and provided unhinged logarithmic formulas that were both impossible to parse and even less reassuring. One said Kona now has the DNA of a 57-year-old human.

This data is not comforting. Further analysis even less so.

Despite this, I’ve spent the last several months fussing over the actuarial data for different dog breeds in an attempt to figure out how long she’ll live.

Being half cattle dog is a huge boon, but the quarter German Shepherd is a major drag on her ability to live to two decades. I would land at a number and assure myself that yes, without a doubt, it would be easy for her to live that long. I felt the urge to make extreme changes to her diet, reminded myself of the importance of exercise and socialization.

Then I need to factor in her individual history: she grew a tumor on her lip a few years ago that the doctors removed. Though the biopsy showed it was benign, was that some portent that my calculations needed to take into effect? What about the time she ate bread dough and we had to “induce emesis”? Had that left a lasting mark on her longevity?

At the end of one of these manic research journeys, I was surrounded by post-it notes with scattered, half-legible calculations. I crumpled them up and chucked them away and admitted the absurdity of the endeavor. It was, in a word, silly.

But to love a little creature is silly.

To invite a four-legged, furry canine into your home, where they will determine favorite cozy nooks and stand by the door to ask to relieve themselves, is silly.

It is a silliness that has changed my life, entirely for the better. And that’s infinitely more important to recognize than any bullshit life expectancy confidence interval I could cook up.

The analysis was silly and impossible and pointless, but it was born out of love.

These days when I need the comfort of data, I go to the facts I know: Today, Kona can run around in the backyard and chase her orange, indestructible soccer ball, with strong bones and fast strides. Today, she does not need any specialized diet or pills besides her monthly heartworm medicine. Today, she loves whipped cream and carrots. Today, Kona is here and healthy. Today is Kona’s birthday and I’m more grateful for her than I can put into words.

Happy birthday, Kona.

xoxo,

Steve