When people ask me how old my Newfie is I always answer in a barely audible whisper and then instantly distract them by pointing at something with a loud exclamation- Wow, look at that terrifying crow!, So there’s that magic paperclip I’ve been looking for, Was that lightening? – anything that will move the conversation along. The age gap isn’t astronomical but rather slightly… comical. Six short years. Nothing to panic about really. Right?
I often reassure myself (and others) by explaining that he’s actually more mature than I am and that he looks older than me too … (the latter comment usually proving the first).
Fortunately he is usually gracious about his irritating youthful advantage and more than makes up for it by being ridiculously thoughtful and kind. Only occasionally is he unable to resist boasting about these six years as if they were closer to 600. Take a recent e mail for example that was full of his usual insights, news of the day and plans for the evening. Tagged innocently on to the end was the following;
I hope you’re as keen to grow old with me as I am with you. I just find it unfair sometimes that you’ve gotten the head start…
I tried my hardest to be outraged but instead chuckled all day. Well at least until it was time to go home and warn him that I might not give him the chance to grow old!





