As I get older, I’m discovering a crippling dilemma endured by most of the souls I encounter:  the desire to be known chained to the horror of being noticed.

It’s like sharing a kennel with a self-destructive pair of Siamese twins hell-bent on fratricide/sororicide/suicide.

Whatever.

Meanwhile, the tired, near-geriatric golden retriever doses next to his brother in the early morning sunlight, thumping his joyous tail, dreaming of simpler times of chasing that stupid ball through the weeds.

Finding it.

Retrieving it.

And being celebrated for simply doing what he was designed to do.

Lucky dog.

Whose years multiply at a crippling pace.

Poor fellow.

Envy and pity hang out together sometimes, too.