Joe's Neighborhood
By Joe Weeg
10/4/2023
“Life expectancy at birth for women in the United States dropped 0.8 years from 79.9 years in 2020 to 79.1 in 2021, while life expectancy for men dropped one full year, from 74.2 years in 2020 to 73.2 in 2021.” – CDC, Aug. 23, 2022
73.2 years? Really? I might as well eat that big bowl of whip cream and lie belly up in the blue plastic wading pool for the afternoon. So much for “30 Days to Better Spelling.” Why make the effort? 73.2 years! Lord, I hear the clock ticking over my right shoulder like some type of Disney-created crocodile, and I’m Captain Hook. I don’t have 10 years. I don’t even have five. Oh me, oh my.
OK, I tell myself, numbers don’t have to be scary. In fact, I’ve always loved numbers. In college, I majored briefly in mathematics because of a strange attachment to high-waisted pants and practical shoes. And even when I switched to a major in religion, math courses were an escape from struggling with questions like why suffering is there, and what happens after death, and why don’t I have a girlfriend.
On the other hand, these recent numbers are scary. And it’s even worse for a male American Indian or a male Alaska Native, as you only get a life expectancy of 61.5 from birth. And if you are male and Black, your life expectancy from birth is 66.7. These numbers are horrible!
Sure, if you’re a woman, the news isn’t quite so bad. The study says a woman’s life expectancy from birth is 79.1 years. Yup, you have an additional six years to dance on some guy’s grave. But if you’re a man? Don’t bother dreaming about your next deep-fried-butter-on-a-stick at the Iowa State Fair. You won’t be there.
I get it. Most of you are shrugging at this news and wondering what flavor to add to your latte. Not me. I’m doing the math. Even ignoring all the recalculations based on surviving as long as I’ve survived, and the notion of the group versus the individual, this is still a disaster. I’m an old man with one foot in the grave by any calculation.
And, by the way, my buddy is also an old man. Or I should say my buddy is also an old dog.
How old?
Well, Charlie is a 100-plus-pound German Shepherd that is 9 human years old. In an article by the American Kennel Club, “How to Calculate Dog Years to Human Years,” they develop a chart that puts my Charlie at 71 years old. And next year, he’ll be 79. At 13 human years, Charlie will be 100.
Dr. Brian Martz, co-owner of Starch Pet Hospital, has been a vet for 36 years. He has ushered many of our dogs and cats into the Big Beyond with a kindness and gentleness that puts him up there with Mother Theresa in my family’s calculations.
But he has no good news for Charlie when I tell him about the impending doom for men and ask whether dogs are suffering the same fate.
“In my time, I don’t think I’ve seen a great extension in life spans for cats or dogs either.”
Bummer.
“Yup, just a lot of typical aging problems like cancer, arthritis, tooth decay, hearing loss, cataracts.”
Yikes!
But Dr. Martz isn’t a big fan of these aging charts either. “Things just are as they are,” he says philosophically, with a smile.
Then he points me to the Dog Aging Project, a scientific attempt to answer some questions about aging dogs. The National Institute on Aging, which sponsors this project, says:
“Through the NIA-supported Dog Aging Project (DAP), scientists aim to understand how a complex combination of genes, lifestyle, and environment influence aging not only for dogs but for humans as well. … The researchers describe how they hope to establish the foundation for an innovative, community science approach to aging research in dogs.”
Great. Of course, I’ll be long gone when they complete that study. 73.2 years. Tick tock, says the crocodile.
Fortunately, today is still today. As usual, Charlie and I are left to putter around the house. An old man and an old dog facing down the numbers — until it’s time to throw the Frisbee. Charlie chases. I throw. We both have a job. We do this until his tongue hangs long and his flanks are quivering. He lies down in the cool grass. I sip a coffee.
We both listen to Iowa.
Cicadas sing their last courtship songs. Birds hustle about chirping the recent gossip before heading south or hunkering down for the cold weather. Squirrels scold each other as they bury acorns for winter in spots they’ll never remember. And bunnies scurry in the underbrush as they nibble the last of my wife’s fall flowers.
In dog years, I’d be 483 years old today.
“So, another round of Frisbee?” I say to my buddy. ♦
Joe Weeg spent 31 years bumping around this town as a prosecutor for the Polk County Attorney’s Office. Now retired, he writes about the frequently overlooked people, places and events in Des Moines on his blog: www.joesneighborhood.com.
