Everything I Need to Survive the Pandemic, I Learned from My Dog
by Karen Mittelman
I am one of those people who adopted a pandemic pup. My husband and I said a sad farewell to our elderly chocolate lab, Hershey, in the winter of 2017. Last summer, as the COVID19 pandemic closed in around us on our hill in Marshfield, Vermont, we decided we were finally ready for another dog. Thanks to a wonderful nonprofit organization in Vermont called Winnie’s Legacy, on October 26, we picked up a beautiful, frightened four-year-old retriever mix named Pie, and brought her home to live with us.
Like every dog or cat we have taken in during twenty-eight years of marriage, Pie proceeded to upend our daily routines and transform our little family, all for the good. These are five things I’ve learned over the past four months from the newest member of our pack.
Play whenever possible.
Every dog I know loves to play, but Pie romps with a joy and abandon that is absolutely contagious. She is fiercely determined to get us to play with her, no matter how firmly we tell her to go away. She will drop her ball in my lap or on my keyboard when I’m on a Zoom call, nudge my arm when I am trying to type, and shove her snout into my armpit until I snort with laughter.
I am a bit of a workaholic in normal times; and since the pandemic, I can easily let work consume me. It’s not unusual for me to look up from my computer and realize that hours have gone by since the last time I walked, stretched, or gave myself a mental break. Not only is that bad for my body, but it’s not productive. In order for me to write well, my brain needs to stretch, to be flexible, wander or jump into unknown territory — in other words, play.
Play is healthy, resistance is futile. When my body, my spirit, or my dog tells me it’s time to play, I’m learning to listen.
Nap frequently.
This one should be self-explanatory. Dogs know the value of a good, deep slumber in the middle of the day, whenever there is a particularly nice patch of sunlight on the floor, or the warmth of the stove beckons, or any time the mood strikes them. They don’t feel guilty about napping when they need to rest, and neither should we.
Love the people in your pack.
Much has already been written about how the pandemic is straining relationships. Couples, parents and kids, and siblings who are used to spending most of their days apart are suddenly stuck with each other around the clock.
My husband and I started to drive each other crazy after just a couple of months of isolation. I’m someone who has always required a great deal of space in my marriage, so the constant togetherness imposed by the pandemic has been challenging. One night, during a snowstorm that knocked out the power in Marshfield for three hours, Bill and I found ourselves with absolutely nothing to do. We ended up playing a card game at the kitchen table, by candlelight. It might have been romantic, except it was…well, boring. Later I texted a friend: No question that if Bill and I lived in pioneer times, one of us would shoot the other. It was funny, but also possibly true.
Dogs do not have this problem. If they love you, they just want to be near you, all the time. For Pie, that means pretty much every minute of every day. Whether I’m washing dishes or making tea, she will lie at my feet with her body pressed against my ankles. The warmth of that contact says: You are my human. I am yours. Here I am.
If the pandemic has taught me anything, it’s to cherish the deep relationships I have with the people I love. We almost lost my sister Debbie this year, and that experience shook me to my core. I will never forget my longing to see her, to hug her, simply to be near her while she lay in a hospital bed in a COVID isolation room. I would have given anything just to be able to stand outside her room and press a hand against the window, to say, I’m here with you.
I confess this lesson is still a work in progress for me. I’m upstairs now at the computer in my study, while Bill is out in his workshop, sanding the tabletop for a beautiful piece of furniture that will eventually find a place in our living room. The two of us have devised ways to be apart for most of the day and come together in the evenings, but it’s an imperfect balance. We don’t always want the same amount of space or enjoy the same degree of togetherness, at the same time. This is my pack, I think to myself, typing furiously. Pie is asleep on the rug, content to be near me. This is where I belong, and who I belong with.
When there is nobody to play with you, it’s ok to be alone.
Outside in the yard by herself, Pie often takes off running, at top speed, in huge sweeping circles. At one end of our property is a stone wall that she leaps atop and flies off of with astonishing grace. She would love to have one of us, or another dog, as a playmate, but failing that, she creates her own entertainment. She has a red rubber Frisbee that she will toss into the air and catch in her mouth, over and over again.
For a social animal, she is remarkably content to spend time alone, patrolling the perimeter of the yard, sniffing the snowbanks for traces of the deer, fox, and other creatures that have visited during the night, or inventing solitary games with her Frisbee.
This is something that has been reinforced for me during the pandemic: there is value in solitude, in being alone with my own thoughts, feelings, and perceptions. We live on a remote hill where the nearest neighbors are half-mile down a winding dirt road, and I can walk for a long time without encountering another soul. The isolation feels extreme at times. And so I am trying to remind myself that solitude doesn’t necessarily mean loneliness. Like Pie, I can find joy in being alone. It sounds trite, but learning to live with myself may turn out to be one of the pandemic’s greatest challenges for me.
Don’t forget there is a big world beyond your backyard.
I don’t know whether dogs contemplate the vastness of what exists beyond their small worlds, the way humans do. But I catch Pie, every once in a while, sitting on the edge of our yard, her nose pushed up against the fence, eyes glued to something — usually a squirrel — just on the other side. Her entire body quivers with her longing to leap, to be able to chase that squirrel deep into the forest. It’s the same kind of all-over quivering that possesses her body in sleep sometimes, when I imagine she is dreaming. And here’s where I begin to anthropomorphize, to believe that Pie can picture herself sailing over the fence, and running as far and as long as she wants to.
In the middle of a pandemic, when travel is impossible and my world has become narrow and small, this is exactly what I need: to be able to leap. I need to be lifted out of my personal fears about the virus, or the heating bill, or what’s happening to democracy in my country, or the health issues that plague both me and my husband in our advancing years. To be reminded of the vast landscape of human experience that lies beyond our house. It’s not easy, but I am lucky to have a job that allows me to work from home, with a few hours off every evening.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and watch the news and start worrying about the pandemic again, and upcoming doctor’s visits, and the future of our country. But for now, I’m turning my gaze to the window to reflect on the world beyond my backyard. Tonight when I finish working, I may be transported by a spy thriller, read aloud a great poem from another century, or watch a documentary that takes me on the migratory path of humpback whales from the polar regions to Hawaiian waters.
I’ll remind myself that I am — that we are — so much more than this one frightening and dark moment that has us fenced in.