Dog Years and Digger Years
It is said that man's best friend is his dog. That may be true. But there is a similar bond between man and his machine.
I have two boxer dogs: a brother and sister, Diesel and Echo. We didn’t name them – Those are the names they had when we rescued them. Although, given that I write about demolition and construction equipment, Diesel does seem an apt name.
Diesel - the boy - is a lump of a dog. Big, heavy-footed, and always hungry. The kind of dog who thumps through life, crashing into furniture and knocking over plant pots with his tail, completely oblivious. He hates the sun, always searching for shade, panting dramatically the moment the temperature creeps above cool.
Echo is different. She's smaller, daintier. Smarter, too. A picky eater with refined tastes, she seems to turn her nose up at food unless it comes with a flourish. And she loves the sun, lying outstretched for hours as if basking in her own quiet contentment. Her eyes still sparkle, but her ears no longer hear. She’s gone almost completely deaf.
They are both fourteen years old now. In dog years, that’s ancient—98 by the book. And every day, I see the little signs that time is catching up. Diesel sometimes slips when he stands. Echo startles when touched, no longer hearing me approach. I know, though I try not to dwell on it, that the time I have left with them is short.
We rescued them when they were just a year old. I like to think we saved them, gave them a good life. But in truth, I think they saved us too; offering love that expected nothing and gave everything at once. During the dark days of COVID, they were my sole reason for leaving the house, saving my sanity on long quiet walks uninterrupted by cars and people.
These days, as I work from home, they are my constant companions. They follow me from room to room, lie at my feet while I type, nudge my hand for attention or snacks when I get too lost in thought. They are more than pets now. They are my rhythm, my routine, my shadow.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering how I will cope when they’re gone. And in one of those odd, meandering thoughts we all have, I found myself drawing a strange comparison to the machines that accompany our lives. Specifically, diggers.
It sounds odd, I know. But if a human year is equal to seven dog years, what would be the equivalent in digger years? Consider this: you might work with the same digger every day for five, maybe six years. By then, that machine has lived a full century in digger time. It has grown old alongside you.
Like my dogs, your digger becomes a constant companion. You come to know its quirks; the way it starts on cold mornings, the squeak in the armrest, the slight pull on the joystick. You know how it moves, how it reacts. You can almost sense when something's off, even before a warning light flashes.
Just as I buy treats for Diesel and Echo - a new bed, their favourite biscuits - you kit out your cab with air fresheners, seat covers, floor mats. You make it your own. You spend more time with that machine than you do with your family some weeks. You eat your lunch with it, listen to your music in it. Maybe you talk to it too.
And maintenance? Well, that’s no different from a vet visit. A bit of grease here, an oil change there. The fitter arrives like a doctor with a stethoscope, diagnosing rattles and clunks, prescribing parts and labour. All to keep that bond going a little longer.
People talk about machines like they’re cold, lifeless things. Tools to get the job done. But anyone who’s spent real time in one knows that’s not true. Like a dog, a digger becomes an extension of who you are. It responds to your touch. It reflects your moods. There’s comfort in the familiar hum of the engine, the hiss of hydraulics, the creak of worn controls.
I've owned five boxers in my life. Each one different. Each one cherished. And when the time came to say goodbye, each one left a void I wasn’t sure I could fill. But somehow, each time, I did. And I know I will again when Diesel and Echo are gone. Not because they’re replaceable, but because the love they gave is too powerful to let fade.
I suspect the same goes for machines, in a way. That last day with your digger — the one that’s carried you through wind, rain, broken ground, and long hours — it will sting more than you expect. You’ll remember the jobs you tackled together. The early starts, the late finishes. The days you laughed, the days you swore, the quiet moments when it was just you and the hum of the engine.
And yes, there’ll be another machine. Newer. Cleaner. Maybe even more powerful. But you’ll still glance back. You’ll still think of the old one with a kind of tenderness that only time can forge.
Because time doesn’t just age us. It bonds us. It ties memories to moments, and moments to machines…or dogs. And when those bonds finally break, what we’re left with is the echo of everything they meant to us.
As I write this, Diesel is snoring beside me, one paw twitching as if chasing something in a dream. Echo is stretched across the sunlit floor, her chest rising and falling in perfect peace. I watch them and wonder how many memories are wrapped up in their presence. The walks, the mess, the licks, the soft eyes on hard days.
Maybe that’s what this is all really about. Whether it’s a dog or a digger, it’s not the years that matter, but the life shared in between. The quiet loyalty. The dependable company. The countless small ways they make your days feel complete.
And when the day comes that they’re gone, there will be silence in the spaces they used to fill. But there will also be gratitude. For the time, the service, the love, the partnership.
I am old enough to realise that goodbye is just another part of the journey. Painful, yes. But also proof that something or someone meant enough to leave a mark. And that’s the kind of legacy both dogs and diggers can leave behind.
If you enjoyed this article, you might also like our previous article “Meanwhile, back in the real world”.