Call it isolation, work-from-home, self-quarantine, or, worst-case, unemployment. What it means is that a lot of pet owners are home now. All the time.
It's having a major impact on our lives — and the lives of our pets, as well.
Of course, we don't really know what goes on in a dog's noggin, but I know enough about my dog Birch to know coronavirus is cheating him out of second breakfast and after-work treats.
My wife always left for work earlier than I did. When I headed out, I would perform the distracting kibble-scatter: dumping a handful of dog food on the floor to distract him while I make for the exit. The goal was to have him not notice and yowl when I closed the door behind me.
That's always the worst, no? The lonely wail that seems so hurt, as if your dog is sure you're going someplace wonderful without him — forever.
When I would come home, Birch would already be tuned to my arrival. There are theories about this. One holds that dogs detect the diminishing quantity of your scent, and when it hits a certain point they think "he'll be back soon to gas up the joint with that variegated funk that's his and his alone!" Or dog thoughts to that effect.
My daily homecoming would be greeted with great dancing, because soon there would be dinner in the bowl and then a rawhide would be produced from the great Closet of Treats. After that, all Birch had to do was wait for the 6 p.m. invasion of the mail carrier, that shambling fiend whose daily rounds must be fought off with snarls and hoarse hollers.
But all that's changed. I'm home now. And because my scent doesn't diminish, the little neurons that process the equation in my dog's brain (less scent means he will be back and there will be food and a rawhide) do not engage. He's defaulted to permanent weekend mode.
The other day, my daughter came home from college. It was a joyous moment for all of us, including Birch. It was as if his brain was flooded with good memories he'd forgotten he'd buried. After he greeted Daughter enthusiastically, he promptly trotted to the food bowl, because if someone comes home, he gets a clatter of kibble. It is the way of things.
But not anymore. No one goes away, so no one comes home.
When I was working at the office, I checked my security cameras to see what the dog was up to. The answer was always the same: not much.
I'd see him sleeping on the sofa, on the floor where the sun strolls past in the early afternoon. He'd go to full alert when there was a serious threat — a squirrel, a cat, a school bus that spawns small people who have the nerve to walk past the house.
But mostly he'd slumber, the microphone picking up the occasional whines from a dream, in which I imagine he's fighting a horde of mail carriers on our behalf.
Now? He's awake all day. He wanders from room to room, drops his rope toy, wags his tail. He sits in the hallway and looks out the window by the stairs, checking for the possibility of a remote menace. Our morning and evening rituals are forgotten.
This will end. One day the house will be empty again, and the scent will wane like a clock winding down. Until then, I look forward to looking into his open, trusting face and saying "I have to go. I'll be back."
He'll have no idea what I'm talking about, but he'll be making calculations: Coat plus keys plus moving to the door means kibble now and rawhide stick later!
Dogs adjust. Whether they got that from us, or we got that from them, or we taught it to each other, who knows? I'm just glad we've mastered it together.
Is it time for a treat?
James Lileks • 612-673-7858 • @Lileks
