My old pal Denver is 12 years of age (84 in dog years) and despite the down at heel look on his face – it’ll stop soon if you ignore it – he’s actually over the moon about going on his road trip today.
Unlike other migrating species he heads south for the summer and loves it. It doesn’t seem so long ago when he used to first scramble into the boot as a pup and then later bound in when he was fully grown. Today Denver managed to get his front legs into the car by himself but the back legs were my job.
Dog years didn’t really mean anything to me when I was young and how could they, I had little to measure them against, but now I’m one of the Golden Guys I really do get it. Watching a dog age at warp speed, the eyesight dip, hearing diminish and the once powerful legs quiver with exertion, you realise how fast even human years sweep by. Time really is the most precious commodity of all.
Denver was named after the country singer – John Denver – a couple of years after his tragic accidental death in a plane crash (if I was a singer I’d never set foot on a plane) and a bit like me, despite being a city boy he just can’t get enough of those country roads.