Acting My Age

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This is my little dog Rose. Rose found me fourteen years ago in the parking lot at PetSmart and adopted me. Not the other way around.

Rose is a long-haired Chihuahua. She's kind of bossy, possessive and protective. I used this photo because it's the view of her I see most of the time. Rosie is a lapdog.

When we first became chair mates, her hair was redder. She was also a bit more agile. It was not uncommon for her to jump up onto my lap or jump down from the bed. Now she wants to be picked up and she wants to be helped down. She's not the first of our dogs to come to grips with aging. It's been interesting and enlightening to watch their behavior change as they begin to deal with increased weight, joint pain and a sense of mortality.

I bring this up because I've had to come to grips with my own aging process. In the past, I've always pushed myself to keep working, in spite of heat, humidity and UV index. Recently, I've had to come to accept that I have limits. Frankly, I'm old.

Since the beginning of this gardening season, I've given in to the realization that those heat and air quality alerts are directed at me. An hour working in the garden on a 90 degree day is equivalent to four hours of gardening in past years. At first, I resisted. I tried to push myself, but it didn't work.

Just as I had to give up climbing trees when I reached my twenties, I've had to give up toiling in the hot sun. If the weeding doesn't all get done, or trellising tomatoes is running behind, it's unavoidable. I'm old.

In the future I'll have to scale back the size of my garden to match my physical limitations. Like my dogs, I'll have to accept that I can no longer jump down from the bed.

Stephen P.



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