Simon Wein
Petach Tikvah, Israel

A lifelong friend is like a mirror. The friend reflects, comforts, takes, gives, and worries.

Our dog, Matilda, is a lifelong friend. She is a twelve-year-old vizsla who is teaching her Mistress and Master how to grow old with grace. Vizslas are also known as the Velcro dog because they insist on being as close as caninely possible to their owners, including under the bedcovers at night.

Ah, we recall when Matilda was a baby and refused to go for a walk. She sat down mid-path, looked at us, puzzled, as if asking, What’s the point? Soon, though, she caught on to the idea of patrolling for cats and their hubris, and the impertinence of rock rabbits (hyraxes). Then she cottoned on to the glory of smelling. Soon, just whispering “walk” and full of adolescent energy, she champed at the bit.

The years passed. She had a best friend, called Donna, a mixed spaniel, and they madly chased and raced around the garden full of youthful energy and joie de vivre.

Food, to her and us, is critical. Matilda would wait till the coast was clear and mischievously double-back to gobble down the cooling dinner on the bench. As she got older, she knew she did wrong (but could not help herself) and was chastised. She cowered under the table, not too worried, with a pleasantly full stomach.

Matilda matured and came in heat. Male dogs walking past our front gate would howl and growl, but we understood that Matilda would age to be a regal spinster. By then the Mistress and Master had a litter of their own, and then their own had litters and there were lots of cuddles for Matilda.

Sooner than we thought she became white, mainly around her face and paws. Which curiously paralleled her Master’s gray-now-white hair.

Then, by her tenth year, she limped with arthritis, especially if cold, and most particularly if she jumped too vigorously. Previously, if she had a thorn in her paw she would limp then stop, lift her paw and wait until the Mistress or Master had done her bidding, before trotting off. Now she has difficulty jumping onto the bed, and sometimes her hind legs miss. Curiously again, her Mistress is having arthritic trouble with her hip, with surgical prospects ahead.

Matilda rests more these days. On her walks she does not pull as much on the leash and does not run as fast after cats. It is now a perfunctory effort, not the maniacal charge as once. Though she can still jump up excitedly to deal with a particularly problematic cat, she quickly loses interest. Her Mistress and Master, well into their seventh decade, also rest more, and consider the Ecclesiastical futilities of aging and life, though paradoxically bask in the next and next generation.

Although Matilda’s appetite is not as vigorous as once, she still longs for “special things,” especially dinner leftovers and ice cream.

Matilda is also well into her seventh decade in canine years. The Mistress and Master have discussed if Matilda were to fall ill, and expensive treatments were available, what we would do. There are wonderful shows on television about treating animals. Our favorite is Bondi Vet from Sydney, Australia. Notwithstanding the heroics and love at the clinic, we agree that with Matilda, we will let Nature take its course. We are beloved of Matilda, since she gives more than she takes, which is as good a definition of love as you will ever find.

Without prejudging our own medical decisions, we note we have had wonderful lives and we will soon pass the biblical three score and ten. What will we do when the quality of daily life is too burdensome, and quantity becomes its generator?

Love, of course and always, carries the promise of pain. Of loss. Of missing. Of sadness. Of loneliness. Likewise, after more than forty years of marriage, the Mistress and Master consider the possibilities, nay, now more like probabilities.

We discuss in which part of the garden Matilda will be interred, and which tree to plant over her. We disagree there. The Mistress wants a hybrid tea rose bush, whereas the Master thinks a mighty eucalyptus tree more fitting. Then the discussion evolves to our own burial site, and what that means, and how long after our tombstones are raised will there be a living soul who ever saw us alive. Never more than a hundred years, which gives pause to reflect.

As for Matilda, so for her Mistress and Master.

Aging and death are, sadly, quintessentially life.