I was at Benjamin’s this evening when a couple came together with their dog. They sat close to the fireplace, where everyone else assembled for warmth. Someone inquired about the dog’s age at some point, and it turned out that it was exactly ten. “My age,” I thought at once, but I remained mum. From then on, I watched the dog with ever-greater interest. Its fur black, it had a graying beard. Quite fit and nimble, it behaved very well. Sitting close to its owners, it stared toward the kitchen most of the time. Every coming and going attracted its attention, but not for long. “Just like me,” I thought again and sprouted a barely visible smile. The longer I sat close to the dog, the more convinced I became that my habit of reckoning my age in reverse dog years made quite a bit of sense. At seventy, I am quite like that dog. If I see it ever again, I will be doing my best to discern my remaining years. And in fast-forward mode. Next year, the dog will be seventy-seven, and it will be eighty-four two years from now…