white in time

I have a confession to make. I think I lie about my dog's age. When his former owner gave him to me, she couldn't quite remember whether he was four-going-on-five or five-going-on-six. When she did the math though, she thought he was probably the latter. But I tell people he's younger. Because I want him to live longer. And you know, my will controls time.

Recently, however, I've discovered a proliferation of white hair on Fred's person. His muzzle, his little toes and the back of his tail and tiny tush: all white. And it's SPREADING. Every day there seems to be more. For some reason I find this really, really disturbing. Now, if he were about to turn seven, this would be understandable. But, let me be clear -- he's only going to be six. And consequently, to each hoary hair I've attached a minute I've not spent with him and therefore a moment in which he's been needlessly stressed. It's not age that's turning him pale, it's my helpless neglect. I'm to blame. It's ALL MY FAULT.

Right. I know this is ridiculous. I tell myself, "Jill, you're being ridiculous. You're a good dog owner. Fred is very happy." But I don't believe myself. After all, if I might be lying about his age, I might be lying about anything. So then I ask my friends and they assure me that yes, Fred is very happy. But really, they could be saying this because it's a really stupid and boring conversational topic: Is Jill's Dog Happy? Discuss. "Erm. No thanks." So then I call my mother, because she has to talk to me about inane topics because she's my mother. She's kind enough to remind me that her own grandmother went completely white at 16 and that she lived well into her late 80's. And even with her white hair, Nana was very happy. And so is Fred. But she's my mother, so she has to say that.

I'm considering whether I should seek the consultation of one of those pet psychic people.

Seriously, it's really quite upsetting to see his lovely fawn coat fade so quickly. I've actually wondered if they make hair dye for dogs. (Less to cover his white; more to hide my shame.) It's so alarming, that I often fantasize about the idea of quitting my job, just so I can spend more time with him, (as apparently, every other waking and sleeping hour of my week doesn't seem quite enough). The upside of that scenario is that we'd get to spend more time in the park, which he LOVES. The down side is that we'd probably be living there. Under a tree. Next to some toothless guy named Joe who smells of urine and is willing to share his favorite Bible verse with me if I happen to have a cigarette. So that's not a rational solution.

I've contemplated getting another dog, but I think Fred likes being an only puppy. Besides, one Chihuahua is welcome in most homes and even in most stores when unobtrusively tucked into a backpack. Two could feasibly be seen as an infestation of sorts and then I'd become the hermit lady, forced to stay in my home to keep my dogs company because I couldn't leave just one behind when taking the other on jaunts about town. And I can't have three dogs (one to take, two to leave), because three dogs is a pack and no matter how small the dogs are, NO ONE wants to dog-sit a pack of dogs and boarding a pack of dogs would be expensive and cruel, especially since they'd all be used to down-covered beds, belly-scratching-on-demand and hand-fed dinners.

I have absolutely no idea how people with children do it.

I tell my mother about the traumas to my social life that my imaginary pack of Chihuahuas will cause. "You don't need more dogs," she tells me, "You're an only child and you're just fine." She's right, of course, I am. But this from a woman who may have had only one child, but always had at least two dogs -- lest they be lonely. So she's no help.

Before Fred, I had no schedule but my own. I went out too much and all hours, traveled on whim, spent too much money, barely ever saw the inside of my house during daylight hours and I had not a single care in the world. But I must admit, I was a little miserable. Now, I've got a schedule. I've got responsibilities. I actually go to the grocery store on occasion. I walk daily as a form of EXERCISE. Not because I want to do any of those things, but because the 8 lb. Lord and Master of Happiness in my universe demands it just by wagging his cute little tail and burrowing his adorable little head under my chin and doing that ridiculously endearing thing where he twitches his tiny feet and softly half-woofs while chasing dream-squirrels in his sleep. I love this dog SO MUCH he makes me sane.

Last night, while brushing my teeth, I caught a glint of something standing straight up out of the top of my head. I turned my head and it went away. I turned my head again and it came back. I tilted my chin. I squinted. I closed one eye. It couldn't be. I pulled. It was a VERY BLONDE hair. So blonde as to be almost bleached. So bleached, by the extremely potent, Atlanta summer sun, as to be almost, maybe, Oh God, not. . . white?

It's okay. I'm not panicking. I've wrapped it safely in a plastic baggie and I'm saving it to withhold judgement until a later date.

So.

Here's the thing.

I know Fred is happy with me. I know I'm happy with Fred. I know that I'm as good for him as he is for me and that we're better for having each other. I KNOW that. I also know that I am in fact 30 and that maybe Fred isn't only just five-years-old. I'd simply prefer, however, if neither of us had the white hair to prove that in reality I can't, by sheer force of will, control time.