The Art of Aging Gracefully

The doctor poked around a bit, checked eyes, ears and throat, patted the old rump and said, “Hmm, there seems to be a few extra pounds around the middle. Have you thought about exercising?”

“Hey, doc, I’ve been working out! Three mornings a week I’m tortured on the treadmill.” Called treadmill trekking, it’s like hiking part of the way up Mt. Everest and sprinting the last mile to the top, then jogging halfway down only to change your mind and run back to the top.

"Not YOU, Contessa. Bongo."

Oh, yeah. I was in the veterinarian’s office, not my family doctor’s. I get the two confused. They both wear white lab coats and dispense treats. Those pizza pup cookies go well with Cabernet.

Bongo, man’s best friend and Contessa’s personal wine caddie, has hit the age where AARP sends HIM notices. Every morning he wakes up with newly sprouted white hairs on his chin, groans when he crawls out of bed and limps around the kitchen on arthritic legs. Bongo, buddy, I feel your pain. At least he gets to spend the day lying on the couch in front of the television while someone shoves food under his nose. Oh, right, that’s Pinot and Grigio. Bongo gets the floor.

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