My name is Daniel. I’m seventy-one years old and I’m dying. This is my love story, of loving women-—young and old; some with great passion, others delicately but always profoundly. Love is profound. Love is very profound. And, for me...being aware of that truth, the epiphany, came to me late. It would be best to learn it early, but the knowledge is available...always. It’s my story of the love I have for my best buddy—a friendship that’s endured and has been important for over a half century, the undemanding love of dog and master, and the special love of mentor and prodigy. I have always felt a bit like an alien in this world. I’ve looked at myself from the outside looking inward...judging my actions, my behaviors—what I thought, what I felt. Sometimes I was glad at what I saw, and other times deeply disappointed, but my view was always objective. Never a cheerleader yelling, wanting a particular outcome; always looking back with cool, maybe even cold objectivity. With a few rare exceptions, people under fifty have little concern about their mortality. They think they’ll live forever. Death is a foreign thought. I understand. I didn’t spend much time thinking about it either. That’s natural. But you’re wrong. Death is closer than you realize; sometimes a blink away.