The similarity matters less than the idea, which has been occurring to me since The Boss picked up the latest variation of the COVID-19 virus last week, following the Missus picking it up — following a visit from one of the younger missies, carrying a sniffle from her Melbourne school.
This idea is along the same lines as “Every cloud has a silver lining” or “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good”. And, of course, we have “A blessing in disguise”.
I’ve hesitated to run these past him on account of his being rather down in the mouth about it. Not surprisingly, the half of the family who still had a choice veered off into other places — any places they could quickly find — rather than spend their Christmas with him.
The half who were already here included the infected and the uninfected, so there was an amusing (for me, anyway) dance between the two, with masks and polite distancing determining who moved to where, and when.
It’s fair to say the dancing became more complicated on Christmas Day, when the heavy downpour meant we dogs needed proper care and consideration.
By we dogs, I mean myself and New Boy, as well as the dear old Black Princess and the out-of-control Black Torpedo.
A downpour means nothing to four hot-blooded hounds, of course, so we snuck out whenever we could, returning when suitably soaked to see how the humans were dancing around each other, and shaking off any excess moisture, as we do, and cheerfully exploring parts of the house normally off-limits, without wiping our feet.
This contributed to a healthy sense of chaos, which, I must say, brought its own rewards.
The most obvious reward was an amount of food far in excess of what the humans could handle, given half the family had done a bunk and there was no easy way to store it all. We hounds were there in this time of need.
This canine feasting went on all Christmas Day, Boxing Day and the next day as well — and I have witnessed an encouraging pile being stashed in the back fridge, most of which must eventually come to me.
Added to that was The Boss’s inclination to head for the couch more readily than usual, with nothing he could do outside and a few of his cylinders misfiring. What could comfort him more than a dog to scratch, a dog willing to stick by him in his plague-ridden state?
Every time he tired of scratching, I would nudge him back into action, knowing he had nowhere much to go, nothing better to do and no-one but me who wanted to be anywhere near him.
If he groaned to be left alone, I only needed to firmly shove his arm again to remind him that this whole experience was an opportunity for personal growth. The King had said as much in his Christmas message, suggesting The Boss use service to others as a means to personal fulfilment. Others mainly being me.
I can’t say he responded positively, but, on the other hand, I didn’t get a whack behind the ear, either.
All in all, it was the best Christmas ever — endless food, play and attention while the wind blew and the rain came down. As the great dog poet said, “Seize the day, and place no trust in the morrow”.
Or was it Horace? Woof!
11°C