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I celebrated my 52nd birthday last month. Well, "celebrate" might be a misguided word.
I honestly cannot believe that I am almost the age my grandparents were when they referred to themselves as "double nickels."
I still recall being in their car and listening to them view their lives in direct proportion to coinage.
And my first thought in that moment was, "That is just so old." Like two quarters and five pennies old. (I was always excellent at math. And then algebra was introduced and English became my new favorite subject.)
My mother still reminds me how I wasn't even old enough to see over the counter at Andy's corner store, but I would always let them know how much change we would be getting back before the register informed the cashier.
So, to that little girl in the car, I was not only able to deduce my grandparents age as double nickels, but by several different currency equivalents to 55 cents.
To this day, if I have two nickels side by side, I feel like crying. Sometimes I do. Because I miss them terribly.
Anyway, now that I am three years shy of an age that is embedded in my mind as loose change, it doesn't even seem remotely possible.
Impossible, quite actually. I mean, where did the years go? What did I even do with my life?
And the more I ponder these thoughts, the more heart-broken I become.
To have to face the realization that I haven't done a thing? Well, nothing that will have made a difference to anyone, anywhere.
No, I am not someone who will be leaving a mark on this world -- except for the tiny cement headstone which lists a name no one will ever know.
But then again, there will be no visitors, so no one will bother to care.
To those of you who are younger than me, to those who have several more decades ahead of you, please know when you reach middle-age, you will begin begging for an unrealistic do-over.
So use your time wisely.
Listen to the song "100 Years," by Five for Fighting at least once. This will not be wasted time. If there is one song where lyrics matter, it is this one.
I am guessing that the purpose of my column is to talk about age. About becoming older. About realizing exactly who we are.
Yes, the older we get, the faster time goes.
It is the same for animals. Only they do so at a much more rapid rate.
And that is one of the most unfair things I have had to learn in this lifetime.
The fact that animals -- especially dogs -- do not get that much time with us, truly devastates my heart.
I always loved those Subaru commercials with the family of golden retrievers. (My favorite.)
The mom and dad dog, along with their puppy always do something hilarious. My favorite one shows the family driving down the road in silence. Then, all of a sudden, they begin barking loudly in unison.
The video pans to a passing mail truck. Once out of sight, they go back to driving in silence again. That is priceless. It made me want to buy a Subaru.
However, their newest commercial is perhaps the most heartbreaking few minutes I've ever encountered from a commercial.
It focuses on shelter dogs. The older ones. The handicapped ones. The ones no one wants. Those who are missing an eye. Or the one who is missing a leg and requires a wheelchair-type device to get him from place to place.
They are alone and unloved.
Waiting and waiting for someone -- anyone, to come along and say, "I'll take him." Or "What's his name?"
But no one ever asks.
The people walk by and more often than not, do not even look in his direction, let alone in his eyes.
And just like humanity, when you aren't the cutest nor the prettiest ... when there is a defect about you, even if it's your double-nickels old age, you get passed over for someone better. As if there isn't much use for you at all.
To know these animals are waiting for just one person to love them. Day after day, week after week, and more often than we care to admit, year after year.
My heart just simply can't take it. There are many of us who can not stand it. So we look the other way. Pretending if we don't put a face to the dog that is looking at you, wagging it's tail, then we won't feel so bad when we lay down at night with a newborn puppy by our side.
We pretend so we don't have to envision him still being at the pound where we found him. We tell ourselves he isn't lying alone, on a cold cement floor, with no one to tell him goodnight. We pretend.
He can't.
At one point he pretended. He played make-believe and thought of someone coming to take him to a home where is was appreciated. Where he received treats and got to play ball in a real yard, if only he could see. If only he could still run.
Know that in no way am I naive. I realize that older dogs require much more care and attention. I understand that those wanting to acquire a family pet or even a faithful companion do not want to be burdened with a dog (or cat) that will need constant care or visits to the vet.
New pet owners are not in the market for bringing home a time-consuming responsibility if they do not have to. And no one wants to have to watch a pet pass away. Instead, they opt for the adorable, playful puppy they can have grow up with their children. The energetic, free-spirited friend who will offer wet kisses and chase whatever you decide to throw its way.
And as long as these pet owners are good to the new addition to the family, I am 100 percent grateful for giving an animal in need a home.
But still, I say, "Why not the older dogs?"
I have two older dogs. Both are 13. Neither are well. And yes, it is trying. Some days are more difficult than others. There are moments spent praying for them during a seizure or episode that leaves them almost to the point of dying. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
I would ask anyone who is considering going to the pound to find a pet, to please consider asking if you can meet the dog that has been there the longest. He or she is no doubt upset that no one finds him cute enough or good enough to be worthy of a home.
Or ask to see a dog who requires special care and attention. They need someone's kindness more than ever.Oh, and please, make sure to look them in the eyes, ask them their name and give them a chance to be loved. Just once.
After all, isn't that what life is really about?
(Stenger is community editor of the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times.)