My terriers Paris and Dublin turned 14 recently. That used to be considered old for a dog. Not so much anymore. The girls, who are sisters, don't hear as well as they used to, and their sight is deteriorating. But they romp with each other, run across the dog park, go on daily walks around the neighborhood, eat well, and maintain a cheerfully superior relationship with the adoring humans they encounter at home and elsewhere.
Small dogs live longer than bigger breeds. I regularly run into people at the Little Rock dog park in the company of what appears to be a fuzzy little youngster, only to find out that their dog is 15, or 16, or 18 years old.
We were lucky that our previous canine companions each made it to a bit beyond 14; by that age Coal, a big, beautiful black Lab/golden retriever mix, had slowed down considerably and had trouble walking, but Bork, a smart, enterprising yellow Lab mix, was lively until cancer took him away.
Why are we so lucky to have these creatures in our lives for this long? According to science.org, dog life expectancy has doubled in the past four decades, and housecats live twice as long as their feral counterparts. That's because of better health care and better diet.
The highest achievers on record are Creme Puff, a Texas cat that allegedly thrived on a diet of bacon, broccoli, and heavy cream; she more than doubled the longevity of her kind, surviving a reported 38 years. Bluey, an Australian cattle dog, is thought to be the oldest canine on record, living to be 29, more than twice as long as the average canine.
Guests at the Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs may recall seeing a good-sized orange tabby named Morris, who walked into the lobby in 1973 and stayed for 21 years. He became such a fixture of the historic inn (which, since its opening in 1886, has always had a cat on the premises) that he was referred to as "the general manager."
As one of many suburban Cleveland elementary-school kids totally enamored of horses, I pestered my parents endlessly until they allowed me to take riding lessons at a nearby day camp in Strongsville, Ohio (since replaced by Interstate 71). Along with riding, grooming, picking out hooves, raking soiled straw, and working saddle soap into leather, we read everything there was to read about horses, and knew a great deal about their ages and characteristics.
Most of the mounts at the camp (I still remember many of their names, such as Smooch, Sunday Star, Shortcake, Sweet Lady, Bruin, and Fiery) were well over 10 years old; sometimes a gelding as young as 8 was added to the lineup.
Nowadays, a 10-year-old horse is practically an adolescent; most live to be 25-30, with some making their way into the 40s. Kentucky-bred Prospect Point, who raced 72 times and won seven races, made it to 38 years and 203 days before dying in 2016.
He was ridden until age 32, after which he became a pasture horse.
In his advanced age, Prospect Point was noted to be healthy and happy. His main health issues were poor eyesight and arthritis, which prevented him from frolicking. Like many older horses, he was slow, and had lost a few teeth over time. His favorite activity was playing with his pasture mate, a donkey.
Sounds like a blissful way to wind down after a busy and varied career that included track racing, a stint at being a polo mount, and a few years of visiting horse shows as a hunter-jumper.
We're learning to adapt to aging, not only with ourselves, but with our dogs. Dublin and Paris respond better to verbal requests (I wouldn't call them commands) if they can see us; shouting up a flight of stairs is unlikely to rouse Paris from her favorite armchair, as I'm unsure she can hear me very well. Yet, once I catch her attention, she has no trouble scampering down the steep flight if it means an outing in our neighborhood's commons or the chance of being handed a Pork Chomp (one of her favorite treats).
Dublin, who lost an eye to glaucoma about five years ago, is showing signs of a cataract that's affecting her sight. Without much depth perception and what's probably a foggy field of vision, she bumps into furniture, my legs, and her sister from time to time. This does not disturb Dub, who's been joyous since she joined the family in 2009.
Those early-morning 90-minute walks on a double lead (with younger housemate Audi, who's 10, misbehaving on a separate leash) have been replaced by later-morning strolls lasting 30-45 minutes, punctuated by lots of snuffling in the shrubbery (they particularly like to disappear under the pampas grass in our pocket neighborhood, which we call The Club) and much less interest in birds and squirrels.
I can only hope to age as gracefully as they are. Yet I want them to live forever.
Karen Martin is senior editor of Perspective.
kmartin@arkansasonline.com