Molly has turned fourteen, which means she’s either 88, 84, or 76 years old, depending on which chart you follow. I prefer the one at her vet’s office, which measures her size, weight, current health and puts her at 72 years. I prefer that calculation. I like to think that she, like me, has a bit more time left on the clock. Although such things are unpredictable at our age.
She’s a Cavachon, a mix of Cavalier King Charles spaniel and Bichon Frise. King Charles are much prized lap dogs, cuddly, sweet-eyed, sweet-tempered, a little needy. Bichons are playful, curious, bred to entertain. Molly is a combination of both, which means she has a big personality, a defined set of likes and dislikes, a touch of anxiety, an obvious preference for people over dogs, and a big appetite for playing and eating. Physically, she seems to have inherited the best of each—she remains a good-looking dog with soft fur and lovely eyes, ears, and tail. Her weight is low, her physical ailments few, even as her similarly aged canine acquaintances struggle.
Still, we’re both growing old, she obviously at a faster rate. At this moment, we’re moving together into what you might call early old age (although I’d prefer not to) and hitting the same issues, human and canine versions, at the same time. This has been a blessing and a curse. It’s also the reality of caring for a senior dog—or a senior human.
If you’d asked me twenty years ago whether I’d care for (much less worry about) a senior dog, I would have said, “Doubtful.” Then again, if you’d asked me where I expected to be, I’d have said in Florida or Canada with my loving husband. Then he died and I had some quick adjusting to do, which ended up not being quick at all. Four years of hyper-activity only helped me so much. After I slowed down, the walls began to close in. I still lived where I lived, one of two occupants in a house I couldn’t seem to leave. Thus, a dog. A puppy, actually, whom I purchased when she was nine weeks and I was four years into my grief and still deeply afraid of making lasting connections.
I’d never owned a pet, not by myself. I had no idea what to do. How was I supposed to care for this tiny defenseless creature? I thought I wasn’t up to the task. A childless widow, what did I know? How could I handle the responsibility?
She was a mellow puppy, which made things easier. She was also a life-saver, an identity-changer (I’m a dog owner!), a bit of a headache, and an absolute guarantee that the low moods and the dark thoughts to which I am prone could not pin me to my house, let alone my bed. My canine companion’s immediate and ongoing needs have always compelled me to, as a friend once said, “Get over your bad self.”
Molly has experienced some changes as she ages. Her anxiety has increased a bit. Her energy has dropped. She sometimes stops in the middle of the room for a second or two, as if trying to figure out what she meant to do. She’s developed idiopathic head tremors, small impulses that turn her into a bobble head for three or four seconds. If her knee is bothering her or she’s tired, she won’t jump up on the couch or finish her walk.
We’ve both adjusted to these issues. She’s learned to use the stairs to the bed. I’ve learned to lift 17 pounds without hurting my back. She’s adjusted to the tremor wave by taking a wider stance when it hits. She loves her mat by the front door (so she can monitor my comings and goings) as well as her car seat. We’ve even experimented with a stroller, which she seems to enjoy.
She seems otherwise happy and healthy, my Molly, and interested in life. She trots briskly, at least first thing in the morning. She’s still up for car rides and road trips and walks and games like fetch and new adventures and food, always food. Like me.
Her life will begin to be measured in months, not years. Maybe 
even shorter intervals. Her health can turn on a dime. That’s hard for me to accept, but I must. Living with a rapidly aging creature is a teaching moment. I frequently find myself lacking in either patience or gratitude. The care and maintenance of a senior dog requires the one and urges the other. That’s a lesson I’m working hard to absorb, a lesson that will be Molly’s lasting gift to me.
For such a diminutive month, February features a number of holidays and festivals of varied significance. Did you know February is National Cherry month? Chinese New Year occurs in February this year, although Fat Tuesday does not. We always begin with Groundhog Day, which seems more meaningful in those parts of the country besieged by extreme weather. Never mind it’s unreasonable to expect a rodent to perform as a meteorologist. Honestly, it doesn’t make sense that we’d greet the sun with an “oh no, six more weeks of winter!” just because some little creature is afraid of his shadow. Talk about seeing the glass as half empty!
Valentine’s Day seems to have replaced a rather pagan fertility celebration that involved the sacrifice of both a goat and a dog. Now it’s a multi-billion-dollar business that involves reams of paper and toys with the affections of millions. Nevertheless, I’m sure we all agree that exchanging cards is better than blood-letting an animal we’d prefer to see bouncing around on YouTube in pajamas or nuzzling a baby or a cat. In fact, most of us in 2019 would go all 
And nothing beats reading. After wading through three books I disliked so much I won’t mention them, I read three books in a row I really enjoyed, including an extraordinary science fiction novel and Nebula award winner in 2016 (The Fifth Season by N.K. Nemesin), a lyrical 2018 best seller (Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Ownes) and an important non-fiction read that manages to be uplifting despite its painful subject matter (Parkland by David Cullen). Even better, I read these absorbing books in front of the fireplace with the dog curled in my lap.