When you reach a certain age, as I now have, the question of exercise becomes just that--a question. Is hoisting yourself off the sofa and walking to the table three times a day sufficient for keeping the old circulatory system circulating, or should you seek additional means?

And if the answer centers on a restrained yes, what means do you go for? But before you begin pacing the floor trying to come up with the answer, perhaps I can be of some help.

Swimming, of course, vies for top spot in the recommended list of exertions. For those not allergic to water, that is. Which, unfortunately, happens to be my case. I've always thought this might be traced to my early bathing days in the old galvanized washtub on the kitchen floor on Saturday nights. Or was I once thrown out with the water as a baby and had to crawl back to the house from the petunia bed?

Then there are the gaits: walking, walking fast (with arms flailing), jogging, and running as if there's a dog at your heels--which likely might be the situation. This form of exercise is often replaced by the aforementioned shuffle from sofa to table. After which, walking all the way to the mailbox and back is so much bonus.

Before going further--unless you have already overly extended yourself--let us keep in mind John Dryden's verse on the subject in his Epistle to John Driden of Chesterton:

Better to hunt infields, for health unbought,

Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.

The wise, for cure, on exercise depend; God never made his work, for man to mend.

I call your attention in particular to the third line, as I'm not altogether sure I understand the other three. But this returns us to the subject at hand: How to exercise without the inconvenience of rupturing ourselves by weightlifting, or suffering even more painful and embarrassing impairments on the parallel bars. I know of athletes who haven't walked right for a full week after such impairments.

Anyway, to get to the core of the matter, people are constantly coming up to me, most often when I'm festooned in my swimming trunks at the beach, and saying, "How did you get a figure like that?" If they stay to hear me out, this is what I tell them.

Pets afford the best exercise available to mankind; I'm not so sure about womenkind. My dear wife's pets, you see, do not go beyond goldfish. They call for her to get off the sofa perhaps twice a week to scatter flakes of some sort upon the surface of their environment. In the spring and fall, she sends them into spasms of joy by changing the location of their castle, She may also do some cleaning up, though I have never caught her at it.

The point is, goldfish don't offer much opportunity for exercise unless one fish dies, in which case you must dig a hole and bury it--or turn your head and run it through the garbage disposal. Either way, it will do little for building your biceps or buttressing your belly. My dear wife could no more replace the roof on our house after a hurricane than she could fly.

No, what I have in mind are pets that provide the exercise necessary for us to become long livers. Which brings us to cats--Cracker, our current cat, being a prime illustration.

Dinner is over, I've done the dishes (I'd rather not go into this), and I finely make it to the sofa in time to catch the millionaire show. This is the signal for Cracker to go to the door to be let out. I heave myself off the sofa and let him out. I return to the sofa. The contestant is about to take a shot at the $250,000 question. Cracker now comes racing up to the door (why the builder installed a glass panel in the door beats me). Thinking he may be in a rush for the litter box (Florida sand being below his standard for the purpose), I rush to let him in.

No, what Cracker wants is more sliced smoked turkey, which dear wife has now substituted for his regular dry old tuna and egg tidbits. By the time I prepare his second helping and make it back to the sofa, the contestant has blown the $500,000 question and must settle. for a lousy thirty-two grand. After the third or fourth such interruption through the evening, I'm ready to hit the sack. And lie awake half the night with leg cramps, which provides the opportunity to get up several times and walk about.

One of Cracker's favorite schemes is going to the door as if asking to go out. But when I make it to the door, he leads me to the kitchen for yet another helping of sliced smoked turkey. My immediate reaction, I'll frankly confess, is to give him a good swift kick in the slats. Then I remember, often barely in time, that this is all for my welfare.

Where a dog falls short in providing exercise for the master is that he (the dog, that is) is not much for climbing trees. I've never yet had a dog reach the top limb of our buckeye, crawl out on the tenderest twig, and then yelp for someone to come up and rescue him.

But dogs have their place in the exercise regime, don't misunderstand. No matter who paid us a visit--friend, foe, or relative--I had to race my dog Beau to the door. Without my hand on his collar, said visitor would be greeted with no less than a paw on each shoulder and a salivating tongue of welcome slathering his face.

Let a neighboring dog enter his domain, I would have to drop my hoe, crawl out of the furnace pit, or come down a ladder two rungs at a time to prevent a possible rumpus. If Abrell's cows came within 50 feet of the line fence, I'd have to be first over the barbed wire or Beau would chase them back to the barn, where some would refuse to give milk that night. And I could show you several pairs of de-crotched jeans, if you doubt my getting over the fence.

I have answered Beau's yelp for help when his legs got caught in the mud down by the creek. I have plunged in snow to my thighs through the woods and vaulted over the back fence (jean crotch intact) to release Beau's foot from a trap he had blundered into. It was the first time his bark had ever hit soprano.

Finally, if your cat has been declawed and your dog's arthritis no longer allows him to slobber on visitors, you might consider miniature ponies for your exercise. We did, and the results were amazing.

We're not talking here of a single pony or even two. For best results, I recommend no less than five--preferably two mothers, their two colts, and one pony of male persuasion. Enough, at any rate, so that they can't stay in the house.

This means that you must walk to their lodging in winter and to their pasture in summer, often several times a day. It's winter that provides the most exercise.

In the morning you are required to slog down to the barn with two pails of water. But before you can quiet their nickering, you must go back to the shed for the axe to chop out the barn door that has been frozen in overnight. After they have each drunk their fill and splashed the rest of the water into your open galoshes, you stick your head into the oat barrel and dole out five entrees, then drop a bale down from the leaning tower of alfalfa.

The highlight of this exercise bonanza occurred the night we were awakened by a phone call announcing that our ponies were in the road playing a game of Dodge the Traffic, the caller suggesting it might be wise to round them up. Easy for him to say.

No need telling you--but I will--that during the numbing midnight hours, we rounded them up, several times; drove them to our driveway, several times; and watched them race gleefully past, an equal number of times. Seeing them finally disappear in the woods on the opposite side of the road, we called it a night (early morning, to be exact) and stumbled up the driveway ourselves.

Before reaching our haven of rest, however, we heard a noise emanating from the barn. Yes, there were our ponies, already expecting breakfast. We had spent those numbing midnight hours chasing Abrell's ponies. They had only been trying to go home.

Call this trouble, if you choose. But when it comes to exercise, I'll take ponies over goldfish, cats, and dogs any old day. Or night.