At Least We're Still Alive!

            A gray plush tabby darts in front of me, stopping to hunker down on the corner of a small patch of green lawn. Empty cat bowls line the walkway leading up to the yellow door, where a gray curly head pokes out from behind the screen door.

            “She’s over there,” I stop for a moment, pointing at the tabby

            Head poking out woman stares at me, startled? Confused? Was the tabby not hers? Is it not a girl? She looks like a girl. All small, cobby and plush.

            “Hellooooo!” A voice booms out from across 34^th  street. I’ve started walking on, albeit slowly. 

            “Ohhhhh! Hello,” she calls back, warmth and relief in her voice. Everyone is so starved for connection. Even if it’s just yelling at neighbors across the street. “How are you?” she hollers.

            “Oh….hangin’ in there,” he chuckles. I’m walking down the street now. Don’t see him but can hear his booming coronavirus neighborliness. “It sure is interesting, isn’t it?” he adds.

            “At least we’re still alive!” she proclaims, her voice suddenly louder, more confident.

            And as I turn the corner to head up Clinton, I think, has it really come to this? That we’re all just thankful to be alive? Why only a couple of weeks ago, I remember meeting Liv on one of my walks. We bemoaned the lack of the pool. (She’s a fellow swimmer.) “But at least I’ve gotten to pet lots of dogs!” she’d joked. Then a man strode by us on the sidewalk (we were standing in the middle of the street—social distance!) walking a beautiful golden retriever.  Liv announced to both of us, “See here’s a dog now. Does your dog like pets?” she asked. The man glared at her, pulling the dog closer, “NO!” he’d growled. “Oh,” Liv said, shaking her head. “Does he not like people?” The man pulled the dog toward him, away from us. “He likes people all right, but it’s not safe. You could pet him, then you could have the Virus and get it on the dog’s fur and then I would go home and pet the dog and get it.” Liv had laughed. “Are you serious?” 

         The man was gone by now, around the corner, marching down 31^st street. The dog obediently keeping his doggy social distance.

            The next day, I saw Liv again on my morning walk; she was picking up trash with her poker stick, rolling cart and bright flowered turquoise sun hat on.  We were careful to keep our social distance but I asked if she’d petted any dogs that morning.

            “Oh, not yet,” she chuckled.

            “Better be careful,” I’d warned, reminding her of the man and his dog of the afternoon before. 

            “What part of wash your hands when you get home did that guy not understand?” she harrumphed.

            We both laughed, parting ways to finish our morning walks. She waving goodbye, poking her stick into a wayward plastic bag on Garvin Street’s sidewalk; I headed up 34^th street to finish my walk before heading back into my shelter in place house.

            As I walk tonight, I think to myself, oh my. How much has changed. It’s all been too much too fast. To go from laughing at a man and his what we thought of as paranoia only a couple of weeks ago to being thankful that we’re alive is a dramatic state of affairs to say the least.

            Can you get the virus from petting a dog (or cat) that’s been touched by an infected person? I don’t really know. I could find out, but I don’t have the energy. It’s all so exhausting.

            So, tonight, as the sun sets and the mocking bird trills, and Cheeto, the cat who goes crunch, comes trotting up to me meowing meowing meowing, I’m just going to stop and pet him. After all, I’m still alive.