Listen to Your Dog

 So, it happened: I got Covid. It wasn't as bad as I expected. 

First off, for some magical reason, I had an overwhelming urge last weekend to go to Trader Joes and buy bags and bags of frozen cuisine, each bag bedazzled with a glossy, 4-color rendering of its delectable contents, sizzling hot and tastefully lit: a moveable feast for skillet or microwave. 

I also went to the feed store last week and doubled up on ingredients for my two senior horses' mash. I even loaded up on dog food and dry cat food. 

And, after a brief moment recently when I was stunned to discover that there was only one roll of toilet paper left in the entire house, I had taken measures to ensure that that would not happen again, barring some sudden and unforeseen extreme shift in the flow of commerce. 

We even had extra boxes of Kleenex on hand, bought when I was loading up on toilet paper.

Moreover, if you can believe this coincidence, a couple weeks ago I had offloaded a substantial amount of work-related ballast to avoid sinking--without having done which, any pause in my rate of productivity would have resulted in something akin to that container ship running aground in the Suez Canal. 

As it was, I could afford to take a week to convalesce and watch Season 11 of The Walking Dead.

It was almost as if I had been preparing all these weeks to get Covid, the same way I might prepare to  spend an entire week in the Bahamas.

Having watched a documentary on Netflix about how dogs can sense people's moods and health, I was more alert to how our dog  Zarya responded to the change in my health. 

When I woke up on Monday with the flu and cold symptoms of the Covid combo, Zarya, our 95-pound shepherd-Doberman mix appeared crestfallen and wouldn't approach me. She hustled out of my room, and would check in only furtively a couple times a day (with my husband). Basically, she acted as if I had beaten her and she wasn't sure it was safe to be around me. 

I won't lie; it was wounding. 

By Wednesday, she began to perk up. And I was feeling better. Not great, but better. 

By Thursday, without being pushy about it, Zarya suggested a walk. Note: She had not suggested a walk on Monday or since, and that is really saying something. Normally, she expects two walks each day, and she is very clear about the timeframe in which these walks should happen. 

By Friday, Zarya had cheered up immensely and no longer treated me as if I were a felon. She insisted I was ready for a walk. 

So, I got up, got dressed, masked up, and Zarya and I walked for 15-20 minutes through the woods at the park down the street. That was enough for me. 

And Zarya was fine with that. She hopped back in the car as thought it had been a really nice long walk altogether from her point of view.

Having grown accustomed to spending gobs and gobs of time alone in my lovely little bedroom under a puddle of cats, I have had a very big day today. (It's Saturday.) I took Zarya to the dog park near a grocery store, and then I went to the grocery store and got piles of groceries. 

Of course, I masked up. 

When will I feel like I don't need to wear a mask in a grocery store?  

Before getting Covid, when I was going around all nude in the face, I was also looking in the paper at the local statistics for covid infections. They were extremely low. 

My friends have been making up for lost time, going to concerts and plays every chance they get...Going to their kids' games and having the book club at their house... 

Why is it I go to the KwikTrip, and BAM! ...Covid. 

My life seemed just on the threshold of becoming normal. 

I was just about to buy tickets for Amy Schumer's 2022 concert in November, trying to picture myself in a crowd of hundreds of hard-laughing people. (November will be here before you know it.)  

Am I now among the super-inoculated? Can I run amok in the mosh pit if I want to? Or am I going to be one of the lucky ones to get Covid twice or three times.

I don't know. But Zarya is saying it's time for a walk.