According to my rough cocktail-napkin math, our dog Banjo (golden retriever/Lab mix) passes me in age this week. According, that is, to the popular conception that seven “human years” make up one “dog year.” It’s a little odd, since I’m not used to anyone passing me in age. Near-light-speed travel not being an option yet, we all tend to age at the same rate. But not Banjo. Onward he rushes to the pet cemetery. (Zoom zoom.)

The seven-to-one time ratio is weird. I wonder how it affects animals’ perception of time. Is it like the time dilation effect where kids somehow experience time “slower” than adults, so that childhood seems endless compared to the rest of life? Every time Banjo pees, he pees for, like, five dog-minutes straight. A sitcom for him is three and half hours long. (For humans, this is only true of According to Jim.) A visit to the groomers lasts all day. A presidential administration might be in office for almost sixty years. (Banjo, sadly, has had the same president in office his entire life. And seven years before he was born. We are at war with Eurasia. We have always been at war with Eurasia.)

Actually, according to that Wikipedia article linked above, dog age isn’t linear. A dog is mature by the end of its first year, which means the first dog year is actually 18 human years, and each subsequent year is more like six years. I wonder if other animals have a curve in their graph too. If so, some long-lived animal that matures quicker than humans do (parrots? tortoises? chimps? [Cheeta is 75!]…no idea) could actually cross you in age twice–once when it passes you, and once again when you pass it. As you race toward the grave. Zoom zoom.