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Covid Outlier No More

I am always late for the party. If the cool kids do something, eventually I catch up. Usually when most people have moved on to the Next Big Thing.

This time that meant I got Covid in March of 2023. I feel a little like Paul in All Quiet on the Western Front.

I mean isn’t Covid over?

I didn’t even feel terrible. Other than one day when I only got out of bed to feed the horses and dogs, and never changed out of my pjs, it wasn’t that bad.

The dogs LOVED sleeping on the bed with me for nearly 24 hours straight. So there’s that. (Let me bust one myth: Covid did not interfere with my sense of smell. At all. That would have been a plus, since I was sharing close space with three extremely farty Great Danes.)

Ruckus refused to accept responsibility for her gassiness.

As for me, I was just tired. I also had leg cramps from being squashed by the giant immobile dogs, but that is a whole other story.

I felt like I had a bad cold. You know, stuffy head, an occasional cough, sneezing and a runny nose. So very sexy, I know.

Because I was pretty good about wearing masks in public, I hadn’t even had a cold since before Covid started. Which was why all of the test kits that the government sent out in 2021 were sitting untouched in my medicine cabinet. I used one. It lit up like a Christmas Tree.

Naturally, I didn’t believe it.

I had a COLD damn it! Anyway the tests had expired. Normally I don’t believe anything goes bad on the expiration date, but since I was grasping at straws, I checked online and sure enough, the internet said that expired tests often give false positives.

The internet is always correct, right?

Still, the next day when I ran out to pick up a few essentials at the store, I wore a fresh new mask. And bought a thermometer. (Side note: I have THREE horse thermometers, but none for humans. Horse people understand.) And a new test kit. Just in case.

I had a lot to do that day so after I shopped, I cleaned the barn, spent a few hours mowing the grass, and a few other equally necessary tasks before it was scheduled to rain again.

I was tired, but it’s a push mower. (Don’t judge me: it was cheap. And so am I.) Finally I sat down and took the test.

I set a timer and then my sister-in-law called. I assured her that I didn’t have Covid, but I was being cautious. We talked for a few minutes, hung up and the timer went off.

Two dark lines.

NOOOOOO!

I was so incredibly pissed.

For one thing, I had been so careful. Not only was I still the Queen of the Masks (in stores and other crowded places) but even more important, except for going to the barn, which is outside, I rarely did anything involving other people. (Anti-social? Or just careful? You decide.)

I do know exactly when I got Covid. I had to fly back East for the funeral of my beloved uncle. When my sister-in-law met me at the airport I told her that I was the only one wearing a mask and someone a few rows behind me hacked up a lung the entire way across country.

At the time it seemed funny. Now, so much.

It’s well-known that I’m not a hugger, but funerals are an exception. So I hugged everyone.

This meant that my positive test had greater implications than for just me. I had visions of being Patient Zero at the funeral. This was not a pleasant thought.

Thankfully, neither my 92-year-old Mom, nor my Aunt, who looks and acts like she is in her 40s, but is almost twice that age, seemed to have picked it up. Nor have any of the other attendees, geezers or whipper-snappers.

One day post-positive, I spent an hour trying to connect on a video call with my doctor to see if, in the words of the slogan, “Paxlovid was right for me.” After the technology failed numerous times we ended up connecting on the phone.

I was already getting better and had no pre-existing conditions, so apparently Paxlovid was not right for me.

But I was giving instructions to quarantine for a few more days, drink liquids and rest.

At least the dogs were happy.

As usual a little late to the party/ So far 2023 has sucked too.

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I Want (?) A Puppy for Hanukkah

I had no plans to get a puppy. And, even though I enjoy the video, I really didn’t plan for a Hanukkah puppy.

With three dogs (and a cat, a canary and two horses) already sharing my little homestead in Los Angeles, more than one of my friends have questioned my sanity. It’s a fair query. But we all know the mental health ship sailed long ago.

But honestly, I didn’t expect to get a new puppy. Yet.

That isn’t to say I didn’t have puppy fever. I always have puppy fever. Doesn’t everyone? Their smushy puppy faces, pink tummies and new puppy smell… Who doesn’t swoon at a puppy?

Puppies are adorable. They are happy, innocent beings, full of joy and life. They wake up every day excited for what great, new things they will discover. Mostly they discover the joys of ripping up paper, chewing sneakers and passing out twenty minutes after eating.

Everyone needs a little of that in their lives.

I sure could. Particularly after 2020.

The pandemic, which cost the lives of family and friends and kept me from seeing the living ones since March, has been devastating. I also lost my five-year-old horse Faith, who had been with me since conception, and my dear Great Dane Fiona, who I’d only had for nineteen months. They died the same week.

But did I need a puppy? Need is such a loaded term.

People need food and shelter. But some of us also need dogs.

I had planned to wait until my two ancient canines, Poppy and Dalai, passed before I got a new dog. Dalai is a 10 ½-year-old Great Dane. Her hind end is weak and getting worse, and she has many small tumors, some of which are probably malignant. Understandably, she is occasionally grumpy. She is the Queen of Seven Hills Farm West.

Poppy is a 15-year-old mostly deaf Brittany with Cushing Disease. Last year she had a dramatic case of glaucoma that resulted in an eye removal. She tolerates other dogs, but her playing days are years behind her.

All old Ladies need a recliner of their own. This is Poppy’s.

Given all that, I was going to wait on an addition to the family.

Additionally, my friend Twinkle got a Dane puppy. Twinkle is a teacher, and her classes on Zoom coincide with my morning ride times. This meant I could take her puppy, Mighty, almost daily to play with the barn dogs, several of which were puppies. This is my idea of heaven.

I got my puppy fix and she could concentrate without worrying about Mighty tearing the house apart or driving her older dog Blue, crazy. Win-win.

Mighty should have fulfilled my need for a puppy. Perhaps if I was a normal person it would have. I have already established this is not the case.

I am very conflicted about purchasing a dog. I am a supporter of rescuing dogs. I know that shelter dogs are rarely dumped because of anything they’ve done. Somewhere along the line their owners have failed them. Badly.

All eight of my Brittanys, and two of my five Great Danes were rescues, but I knew my next would be a puppy. I had too much death in 2020 to adopt another ancient dog, and I believe that my grumpy old dogs would more easily accept and train a goofy puppy, than a confused, disoriented, senior. Since Great Dane puppies in rescue are slightly rarer than unicorns, I would be buying a puppy.

I had no plans to purchase a dog any in 2020.

Man plans, God laughs.

About three weeks after Mighty’s arrival on the scene, Dalai’s health declined drastically. Coincidentally, Jasper’s breeder posted photos of her four-week-old puppies.

At four weeks, the breeder called Ruckus, Zada.

This complicated things.

I like this breeder. She is super-responsible and only has a few litters a year. It helps that Jasper is the whole package: he is gorgeous, has a great temperament and so far (knock wood) has had no health issues.

The breeder had two females, and I had already decided on a girl. I told her to pick out the most passive of the girls, and I’d put a deposit on it.

Venmo sent, the deal was done.

There was still one more kink in the chain. The breeder and the puppies are in Kentucky.

In November when this was all coming together, I still believed that I was going to throw all of my dogs into the car and drive cross-country to see Mom for the holidays. I’d make a side trip to Kentucky to pick up the puppy, just like I had done for Jasper. Easy-peasey. And fun! (I LOVE Kentucky, if not their politics.)

Plans….

In December Covid-19 cancelled non-essential travel for everyone except selfish jerks.

The puppy needed to leave the week before Xmas, I needed a plan B to get her to Los Angeles.

Located deep in Kentucky but a few hours from Nashville airport, the breeder has shipped puppies all over the country, so that seemed like a plan. She also had another puppy coming to Los Angeles.

This would be a no-brainer for most people. Most people are not neurotic freaks. I however, am.

I am no fan of flying dogs in cargo. With the help of Xanax and an elaborate strategy I have flown with Poppy in the belly of a plane. My tactics involves kissing up to the pilot, flight attendants and cargo people by bribing them with expensive candy and charming notes.

That only works if I’m on the plane.

I flew Jasper home on my lap, but, Covid. There was no way I was flying back and forth to Nashville pick up a puppy, even for this puppy. Nor was I, as a friend from a obviously different economic situation suggested, going to pay a human to fly her to me.

(Full disclosure, 15 years ago I did fly back and forth to Albuquerque on morning to get Poppy from the American Brittany Rescue. That was pre-Covid and I had a zillion frequent flier miles. Neither of which count now.)

The little one was going to have to go it alone.

To Be Continued…

When Shit Gets Real

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In all major crisis’ everyone has their moment.. For most of us it was helplessly watching the Covid-19 tragedy unfold in Italy, Spain and China. For Mr. Trump it was the idea of losing the election and watching the stock market crater.

For me, it was John Prine, and Marianne Faithfull were reportedly in the ICU with the virus. (Not together, but both would probably find that a hilarious image.)

That Prine is a genius singer/songwriter/composer/influence is a given. After beating cancer in the 90s, it seemed that there was nothing he couldn’t do. Hell until a few months ago, that old geezer could still probably knock out a mail route if he wanted to. Singing while he did it.

Last week it came out that he was in critical condition and on a ventilator from Covid-19. The latest update from his wife Fiona, is that he is now stable. But that doesn’t actually mean much.

There is even less information about Faithfull. This is not good. If she was doing well, we’d hear about it.

Both Prine’s self-titled debut album, and Faithfull’s “Broken English” are absolute musical touchstones to me. (If you know those records, not only should you it will explain a whole lot about me. Probably more than you need to know.)

Anyway, now it’s personal.

I already was following the safety at home order. I mean, realistically, that is my normal life. I LIKE being at home and alone, but the shopping for a couple of weeks at a time thing was new to me.

I barely cook and I hate to shop. Which means I usually go to the market every couple of days to rush in and out as fast as possible, with little or no thought. The only thing I do know is that I have to pick up a 25 pound bag of carrots.. I also go through about 75 pounds of carrots a week. So I average three swift trips to the store a week.

A weeks worth of carrots for the horses.

These days like everyone else, I’m a homebody. I leave the house only to walk the dogs, ride and occasionally to go to the store to pick up carrots. Those big bags don’t fit in my fridge if I put anything else in it and carrots go bad.

I went to Smart & Final today. It was the first time I’d been in over a week. (See! I really am trying!) I was pleased to notice that some of the craziness has settled and there were a lot fewer shortages.

The shelves were stocked with lots of fruits and vegetables (of course they were!), and all kinds of meat which I don’t eat. For the first time in three weeks there was ground turkey which I use to make the dogs’ turkey loaf. (The ONLY time I cook regularly is for the dogs. But you knew that.) Score! And a giant jar of peanut butter which I use to give the dogs pills. Double score!!

There were the usual empty spaces where the paper towels, disinfectants and toilet paper used to be.

I expected that. What I didn’t expect were the vacant shelves where the carrots and apples should be.

There were none. Nada. Not even a single crummy one pound bag of carrots or any nasty Red Delicious apples that no one eats willingly. Come to think of it, my horses don’t even like Red Delicious apples.

I suspect this is a temporary glitch, one that has hit my neighborhood grocery stores harder than others in less equine infested areas.

But still.

While I did raise my eyebrows at the cranky man screaming about how we were now living in a communist society where you can’t even get the basics, a part of me nodded. I’m not proud of this.

I think I’m dealing with the quarantine (after the gut punch about Prine and Faithful) pretty well. Or at least like most people.

Somedays I am fine. I know life goes on, most of us will make it through, and move on with our lives.

I do smile when see all the young families in my neighborhood out for walks with both Mom and Dad, I hope that the kids will remember the closeness they had during this time. (Hint: they won’t. But The Great Toliet Paper Shortage of 2020 will certainly become a part of their family lore.)

I am hopeful that all of us on the financial bubble will survive. I worry a lot about the people I see hanging at the U-Haul place looking for work as day laborers. They have no safety net.

Somehow this will pass. Right?

I also swing wildly the other direction, right smack into complete terror. (If I survive this, the economy is going to tank and how am I going to feed my quadrupeds and keep my house?)
But that isn’t a sustainable way to live.

I can only deal with one disaster at a time, and right now my focus is that my friends and family stay healthy.

I know a bunch of people who are, well , catastrophizers. They can’t think past the worst possible outcome.

I can. In fact, for years I made my living doing just that, as a publicist. When things go according to plan, any duffus can handle it. I got paid to be prepared for the cataclysmic disasters. For better or worse, my nature and profession, lend itself to being a problem solver.

It’s working for me so far.

I mean really, If you can’t go to the store or are concerned about it, hey, thankfully you have enough money to use Instacart. (Tip WELL and say thank you!) If it takes a couple of days to get there, well, there’s probably nothing you can’t survive without for a bit.

No paper towels? Use dish towels and wash them! Worst comes to worse you can do the same for toilet paper, at least if you have easy access to a washing machine.

Deal the fuck with it. It’s not like you don’t have a ventilator and the federal government is hoarding them. (That’s a whole other issue and for Congressional inquiry to decide. (I’ve got your back Rep.Schiff!).

I find myself becoming a new cliché. I have learned how to use Zoom and done hangs with some of my dear friends. It’s not the same as being there, but it’s okay.

Since I can’t go to the gym, I’ve trying online exercise classes. Some are good. Some not so much.

I’m a hard pass on future Dog Yoga classes. They sound like a blast, but are designed for people with short dogs. But Fiona and I did laugh a lot. Okay, I laughed. She snored.

Fiona and I doing yoga. See the problem?

None of this is fun, except maybe me trying to do a downward fold over Fiona. But I’ve learned a little about myself and the world. Including that my internet is not as reliable as I previously believed. (It’s awesome to have the yoga video freeze in chair pose! Feel the burn!) And that toilet paper is a bankable commodity.

Thus far I haven’t lost any loved ones. That’s a huge win. So, with a big nod to several of my former therapists, this is my mantra and I’m sharing it with you: “You can’t control most situations. You can only control your reactions.”

Nice to know I learned something from the zillions of hours I spent in their offices.

Stay safe friends. And listen to John Prine and Marianne Faithful.

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How Is Your Year Going?

I’ve been out of touch for a while, cause, this year has been so perfect and dull I have had nothing to say…I’ve never had so much fun as over these past three months. How about you?

Just kidding. I’ve been cowering in the barn grain room wondering if Covid-19 can find me there. It’s pretty dark and dusty.

Still kidding. For me the truth lands mostly in the middle.

Some days my mind spins out of control: Trump! Covid-19! The Stock Market!

Others I just stick my fingers in my ears yelling LA! LA! LA DEE DAA!

Whatever works. That’s my current motto.

Three Danes on a bed and a Brittany on the floor. That’s normal.

That and “STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! Please?”

I was lucky enough to fly to the East to visit my Mom in the Berkshires a week or so before the virus exploded in the US. It was already being mismanaged terribly – no tests, White House denial etc., but for some reason I thought everything was going to be okay. After all, we are the USA and have the CDC on it they managed to keep us safe from Ebola. And a whole Pandemic team and plan.

Oops. That was in 2016.

Anyway, by the time I came back to Los Angeles five days later, it became obvious that nothing was going to be the same for a while. I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

I wasn’t consciously planning to stock up on things, but looking back that’s sort of what I did.

I needed hay, so I ordered a lot – about 50 bales – which should last the two fatsos in the backyard quite a while.

Yet even then, because it had been raining a lot, I was more concerned that the delivery truck would get stuck in my yard, than acquiring the trump virus. I actually considered this: it would be handy to have a giant truck of my very own. Then I could pick up my own damn hay and shavings.

Luckily, the driver/delivery man is a much better truck driver than I am. He was in and out of yard in less than two hours. There were only a few nasty ruts. Winning!

I also did some shopping that week, since as usual I had nothing in the house. That forced me to visit Costco just as the madness and hording was ramping up. I bought a few extra bags of dog food at Costco mostly because I wanted to postpone a return trip as long as possible. People were insane. Even though Los Angeles’ water is just fine. Every cart had cases of water.

And toilet paper. There was a whole separate line, with line monitors for toilet paper. For toilet paper? This is a respiratory virus, so Kleenex maybe. (And what was up with the guy that literally had a huge basket filled with lettuce? I have so many questions…)

Anyway, while I was out I picked up dog food, cat food, canary food and extra grain for the horses. So I’m pretty good.

In fact, since I work at home and don’t go out much anymore (times have changed from the days when I would see three bands a night!) my life is pretty unchanged from the pre- “safety at home” order.

I am lucky and oh, so incredibly grateful to live in California. Here, it is up to each barn to decide if they want to remain open. (For all of you who are allowed to ride, all together say a big “Thank you” to the horse racing industry who made the legitimate argument that horses need to be worked every day. Otherwise NO ONE would be riding.)

Mickey and Faith are at a single trainer, private stable that has remained open. (Thank you Heatherly Davis and Tracy Saunders!) Heatherly staggers riders so there are rarely more than three around at any time. Everyone is extremely respectful about staying at least six feet away. And it’s California, so we ride outside. In a ring that is about an acre in size. Have I mentioned how lucky I am?

Layla is often ridiculously happy to see me. Foals.

Layla lives about ten minutes away. She’s out with one old mare and four other yearlings. There is rarely anyone there when I visit so that’s not a problem either. Actually that’s not quite true, if I’m not careful I can get run over when they mob me, because, foals. Not a bad problem to have. Foals give the best hugs.

Layla (she’s the one with the Troll forelock) and her BFF Haly

I am more than a little thankful to be able to ride and do it in a place that is stunningly gorgeous and so visually distant from the city that I while I’m there, I can pretend that nothing has changed.

Except it has.

I still walk the dogs every day. Usually I’m the only one. Now there are other people walking too. Lots of them.

People are mostly nice. They say hello and keep a safe distance. That might also be because many days I walk with my friend Twinkle and her Great Dane, Blue. Nothing will make dog-fearful people get out of the way faster than two fat Great Danes heading their way.

When people cower in the street, it hurts Jasper and Blue’s feelings, but they survive.

Lately I’ve also spent a ton of time pumping the water out of Lake Liveten, which was formerly known as my horse paddock. It was literally an ocean back there.

A few of my rubber duckies made a break for it and adopted Fiona as their leader.

I was lucky enough to borrow a pump and it works beautifully. It just takes a while and I’m not going to leave it unattended cause, you know, horses, dogs, water and electricity. What could go wrong?

The water is almost gone now. Except we are expecting another huge downpour.

So I repeat, how’s your 2020 going?

Stay safe and happy folks! We will get through this. I’m throwing a huge party to celebrate! See you soon!!!!!!