Strider grows old to show me how it's done My noble pup remains true to the end -- a philosopher with a silly, lopsided grin December 14, 1989 It's so unfair for dogs to age faster than we do. The pup who only yesterday was a brown blur of enthusiasm is my stately old veteran today. The leaping and bounding of days gone by have been replaced by the cocked eyebrow and crossed paws of repose. Once the "Houdini hound" who wouldn't stay caged, he's a retiree today, happiest when strolling slowly or -- better yet -- lying down. In only 13 years he's passed through all the stages my life can hope to cover: bright youth, silly adolescence, busy maturity and gradual decline. There's a dance or two in the old boy yet, but it's clearer all the time that his days are numbered. In a just world he'd outlive me by decades. His has been a life of unselfish devotion, of love without measure. He's never done an evil deed (though he's suffered his share of bad judgments) nor wished ill for dog or man. His presence brightens the room he enters. His gentle spirit is a good example always. In a just universe, he'll surely go to heaven when he dies. Far better than most humans I've known in the same span, his life has been a celebration of what is good and real and lasting. So why will he die so soon? It isn't fair. In a fair world he'd live on in a land of biscuits and rawhide chews long after our kind had faded to memory. In a fair world, he'd be locking the gate and leaving me penned up in the side yard. But the world isn't fair and the fact is that dogs don't live as long as we do. They don't even come close. Many of my friends are on the third or even fourth dog of their lives by now. The childhood companion passed long ago, and the pooch they got after they became real people may be dead or aging badly by now. By age 40 we've outlasted a few dogs already, and the painful loss of their passing begins to touch ever more deeply. Why wouldn't a dog have the same life span as a human? We could live with them then on more or less equal terms -- youngsters together, romping through the puddles, and later getting busy with our families. As we aged, maybe we'd both seize up on rainy days, and together learn to love fireplaces as much as once we did the open meadows. Wouldn't that make more sense? In an orderly world, it would. But watching Mister B grow old has showed me why that isn't so. Like so much else in the people-dog relationship, it works out for our benefit. He's growing old and dying to show me how it's done. His advancing years and declining abilities are my textbook for studying age and grace. His patient, steady pace is a model I hope one day to follow. His uncomplaining spirit is an attitude I pray I'll master as I age. When we bought a taller bed and he couldn't make the jump up, I learned to lend a helping hand. When he started to lag on our occasional walks, we learned the therapeutic value of regular excursions. When he suffers the embarrassment of an occasional accident, I learn to forget it. After all, I may be there one day myself. A leaper in his youth and a lover in his middle age, he's a lesson for me now. He's a four-legged role model, and a fine one, too -- a philosopher with a silly, lopsided grin.