Today the Colonel begins his 56th air-breathing ride 'round 'ol Sol. In infantry years that makes him a hundred and ten. Still, that sounds better than three hundred and eighty-five dog years.
Frankly, while achieving the age of fifty-five doesn't seem like much of a milestone anymore, the Colonel didn't expect to live past thirty. So, every year for the past twenty-five has been a joyous bonus. The Colonel just hopes that he has been the only one making such an accounting of his life.
There are, the Colonel is finding, several advantages to reaching this age:
Outfits like AARP send the Colonel something to start a fire with almost every week now.
The Colonel doesn't have to react angrily any more when some pimply-faced mouth-breather behind a cash register offers him a senior-citizen discount. This has been going on since he turned forty (see aging effects of infantry in the first paragraph above).
The Colonel doesn't have to feel guilty any more when he accepts the senior-citizen discount offered by some pimply-faced mouth-breather behind a cash register.
The Colonel no longer feels the need to shave and get dressed up to go into town.
There's a whole bunch of new fellows with whom the Colonel has gotten to make friends. Like, for instance, the Ologist Brothers--Procter, Optham, and Ur.
To celebrate this not-so-auspicious day, the Colonel may take his trusty red tractor, Semper Field for a spin. Or take a nap.
Nap sounds good.