Taken by storm

by

Since the quarantine started, every day of the week feels like the movie Groundhog Day. When I pry one eye open in the morning, I’m surprised Bill Murray isn’t hogging the other side of the bed. But there are no famous guests. Only dogs.

It’s 5:45 a.m. and they want to go out. I know this because a dozen paws are clogging across my rib cage and three tongues are licking last night’s moisturizer off my eyelids. One fetches my Crocs to move the process along, but I’d really be impressed if she fetched coffee. I desperately need coffee.

There’s no fence separating my yard from the golf course behind it, so we have to take a few precautions before opening the door for the daily morning outing. The most important one is hooking the mighty Morkie to the 25-foot lead strategically anchored to the drainpipe just outside. He’s developed a taste for strangers’ ankles, so he’s under house arrest. (We all are.)

Then there’s Rocket Dog, who starts each morning with a wild goose chase. We’re not sure what breed she is, but the vet thinks it’s probably a cross between a blue heeler and a Bugatti. Once she bolts out the door, we won’t see her again until every honking, feathered, flying, pooping invader is on its way back to Canada. When she’s on a mission, nothing gets in her way.

Last but not least, scoop the 5-pound mini dog out of harm’s way before the other idiots trample her.

The system is flawless unless you clip the wrong dog to the lead. (Told you I needed coffee.)

I’d barely cracked the door open when I heard the drainpipe ripping off the house. It’s a familiar sound, much like a fender bender when opposing bumpers clash. It’s the sound they make when they’re mortally wounded.   

While the mighty Morkie was enjoying his new freedom, Rocket Dog disappeared in the distance, unfazed by the 6-foot pipe clunking along behind her.

Any time days start off that way, the safe bet is going back to bed and starting over. But I couldn’t. Groundhog Day calls for rigid schedules: Feed the dogs. Make the coffee. Search the web for some preposterous doodad no one should live without.

So far, I’ve acquired some classics, like my milk frother. It’s a hand blender-type gadget that makes coffee impersonate whipped cream. The headline read: “Dalgona coffee is the latest fad that has taken the internet by storm.” Yes, I know the internet is fickle and gets “taken by storm” at least 786 times an hour. It really needs its own weather forecaster and emergency warning system. If you see Bill, please tell him.

Anyway, the milk frother is still in the box because I can’t wait for fancy coffee. In the interest of everyone’s safety, I’ll continue to stick my head directly under the Keurig.

Normally I can ignore the ads and sensational hype, but this quarantine has crippled my defenses. That’s why I was sure I could not survive another day without a 12-position, productivity-enhancing, folding lap desk. After considerable research, I found a beauty.

Shiny and black, sleek and very high-tech—it looks like something designed exclusively for Batman’s cave, or possibly an insect from outer space. The contraption features three-section legs, each with a separate, cantankerous knob to depress for symmetrical tilting. I quickly discovered that successful adjustment would require the skill set of an athletic octopus. It took both hands, one foot and most of my teeth to pry it into position. I would return it, but there’s no hope of getting the thing back in the box until it’s safe to import some male muscle. And Phil Conners is nowhere to be found.

I don’t see Batman, either.

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According to her bathroom mirror, Jan A. Igoe has been aging in dog years, but she’s saving a lot of money on makeup, razors and pants with zippers. She hopes you stay healthy and find reasons to laugh during our imprisonment.