Who wants to be 100? Possibly nobody
Sunday, 22 March 2026
My mother would have turned 100 today.
I mentioned her last week, and how she’d gone on an adventure to the other side of the world from her home in England when she was 22, and never returned.
She died two years ago, two days short of her 98th birthday.
Respectful, but otherwise ambivalent to royalty, she wouldn’t have cared a jot for the letter from the King that centenarians receive in embossed envelopes.
Much more exciting to her would have been a colourfully scribbled card from a great-grandchild.
Read more by Mike White:
The idea of ageing unsettles most, just as the thought of dying frightens many.
And no matter the surety of ageing’s course, some pretend it might spare them.
Some buy ludicrous emulsions to plaster their face; Philip Polkinghorne bought snazzy scarlet pants with zips; some trust science will concoct an antidote before their time comes.
But most of us are just too busy getting through the day’s business to devote much time fretting about the onset of finality. Those woes and worries can wait another day.
Mind you, I do recall being concerned about it at one stage. When I turned 30, I thought life had peaked and the best days were gone. Oh foolish youth.
Another birthday recently brought me to the same age my father was when he died. That’s been a slightly strange concept: In my mind, I’m nowhere near as old as he was when his life suddenly stopped.
The only things I take from it though are that he really was quite young to die, and that I’m now in bonus territory, genetically, on that side of the family.
The reality of ageing has played out before us in recent years and months as the Old Dog has gradually slowed.
Dogs’ lives are so condensed, we get to see the stages from puppy to pensioner all while we meander through a nondescript passage of middle age.
In calendar years, the Old Dog is 16, but according to some online calculators, he’s the equivalent of well over 100 in human terms.
His gait has lost the grace of his youth, and sleep fills most of his days.
But his coat still shines, and drugs shun or dull discomfort.
Walks are sedate and short, but still of great interest.
Sadly, the bastard cats of the neighbourhood now stroll down our driveway with irritating impunity, knowing the Old Dog will neither notice nor pursue them any more.
We’ve talked about all this with the Old Dog’s vet, and how to know when is the right time to say, enough.
People say, “Oh, you’ll know when the time is right.” Maybe sometimes, but generally it comes down to you intuiting whether the good bits in your dog’s life outweigh the negatives.
That threshold is a vapour, not a scientific calculation.
The faces of those we pass on our walks signal sympathy when they see the Old Dog. They offer surprise when we answer their question about his age. They are kindly and pat the Old Dog as he sniffs their legs.
Mind you, there was the guy at the lake a while ago who looked at the Old Dog as we returned from an amble and declared: “He looks sore.”
The man’s manner wasn’t one of condolence or compassion, but bordering accusation.
A host of responses raced to be the first to emerge.
I felt like saying, “What would you know?”
I felt like mentioning the Old Dog shouldn’t be suffering, given the money we spent on drugs for him.
For a split second I contemplated saying, “And you look stupid wearing a legionnaire’s cap and Crocs.”
But all I could muster was: “He’s old.”
I hoped the tartness of my reply reinforced the unwelcomeness of his judgment.
The Old Dog didn’t contribute to the brief discussion, his bark largely gone, his interest focused on when he might next get some treats.
I studied the Old Dog at the weekend as I lay in the shade on our lawn, all brittle and brown at the end of summer.
The Old Dog lay a few metres away in the sun.
He loves the sun, until his black flanks overheat, and he has to seek the shade.
Eventually he roused himself, and wandered over to me, panting. He slumped down, and submitted to having his neck gently scratched.
Over the back fence, our neighbour was pottering in his garden, accompanied by a music as vapid as it was too loud.
It was music so inoffensive it was offensive.
It was music that AI would compose if you asked it to create an opera inspired by air conditioning.
It was several storeys below even the banality of elevator music.
I tsked and wished for the return of birdsong.
The Old Dog snuggled in, oblivious, deaf to the neighbour’s tastes.
Being 100 had its benefits.