Every morning, Angus and I head out. We walk past the elementary school, now silent and dark, and toward the deserted park. We cross the bridge and pass the conservatory, once open every day of the year but now locked, with CLOSED signs taped to the windows.
These early-morning walks are long and strange — strange because right now everything is strange. And long because I am working from home. I have no bus to catch, no 40-minute commute to the newsroom. On walks, I can take my time.
So we meander. Angus sets the pace. He snuffles the dead leaves in the woods and stares down squirrels. Chipmunks have emerged from hibernation, and when they skitter across our path, he lunges.
We walk on, and on, and on. He is a great companion in these fraught times. He's not filled with angst, as I am; he is filled with joy and curiosity at the world, and his enthusiasm helps me feel joy, too. He has become a great walker, dependable and sturdy, like my old Toyota Tercel.
His impulse control has improved immeasurably, and while squirrels and chipmunks still excite him, he ignores all people (as long as they ignore us) and he does his level best to ignore other dogs. (His level best is not always all that great.)
Not that we see many people or dogs these days — everyone, it seems, is sheltering in place.
When we get home I rip off my gloves and, even though I have touched nothing more than a dog leash, I throw them into the wash. Then I roll up my sleeves, scrub my hands and arms up to my elbows, wipe down my cellphone with an antiseptic wipe, climb the stairs to my computer, and get to work.
Angus, my faithful shadow, follows. My husband is also working from home, parked at the desk in the spare bedroom. I hunker down on the sunny enclosed porch off our bedroom, sitting at a plastic table we hauled up from the laundry room. Angus collapses on the rug outside my doorway, taking up most available space, and falls asleep.
