Layla Speaks Out Against Covid

Layla in the sun—photo by William E Evans, ©2021

It’s been a year. Boy, has it.

The Management has been bellyaching, covid-this and covid-that, but really it’s been we canines that have suffered the worst. They have these silly blue nose bras they keep trying to talk through—thank god they don’t make me wear one. I just want to get this off my chest. Really, get it off; I hate this red harness. It does nothing for my gray coat. Makes me look prissy and I’m not that sort.

I work hard keeping up appearances, looking sharp, upholding the husky tradition, but this year the male half of the Management hasn’t bothered. He’s let his hair grow long like he’s a hippy again. Never shaves any more, and since last fall he’s been wearing that same yellow windbreaker when we head out. And his scruffy baseball cap—gad, it’s embarrassing.

I used to always hear remarks like ‘look how beautiful she is!’ ‘oh, those eyes!’ and ‘what a dog!’  Now they see him and cross the street. Or yell ‘Hey, buddy, you forgot your mask!’ Everybody’s uptight like the end of the world or something.

Walking the neighborhood used to be the highlight of my day. Now we’re forever crossing the street when we see someone coming, as if one of us has cooties. I certainly don’t, but I won’t speak for the Management. And they keep wanting to take walks, all day morning noon and night. First thing, he leaps out of bed, throws on his jeans, grabs his shoes, that disgusting yellow Gortex affair because he’s sure it’s going to rain, and expects me to be raring to go. You’d think he’d want his morning coffee, but no, we have to take a walk. I’m just settling into my midday siesta when she comes charging downstairs and wakes me so she can ‘get some air’ like there’s none up there in that palatial office of hers. Then again in the afternoon they expect I wanna go a third time. Give me a break. It’s anti-covid time three times a day. Walks and more walks, day in, day out, week after week. When will this end?

Come the weekend, she insists on a run through the woods. No stopping for a sniff and pee. I’ve never seen the like in my life. The woman’s crazy for running. I need a rest.

How wearying this pandemic thing has been. The other day, I was commiserating with the labradoodle down the street. She sat there looking goofy like a labradoodle, chewing on a stick the entire time I’m venting, but she’s too young to appreciate how things used to be. Jake, the old gray schnauzer, knows what I’m talking about. He’s been around. Since he finally conceded I’m the alpha, we get along OK.

And that 6 ounce Yorkie bitch around the corner—Loki, boy does that name fit her. “Loki, come! Loki, come! Loki?” The burly walker guy picks her up whenever he sees me. They drape this bright orange rain jacket on her when it’s raining. Only so much I can take of her yapping. If she ever gets in my face, there’ll be one less Yorkie…

If you ask me, Yorkies are an embarrassment to the species. They’d blow away in a good wind. Or get lost in a snow drift, except there haven’t been many of those lately. Worse than Chihuahuas with those bulging eyes and skinny rat tails. Hardly any dog there at all. They say Chihuahuas are Mexico’s national dogs; they should keep them south of the border. Build that wall, I say.

The little Asian lady ran by us yesterday all masked up with her own Yorkie looking ridiculous as usual in the baby stroller. Those tufted ears are bigger than the Yorkie’s head. In a baby stroller, can you imagine? The Management always gets a chuckle, but I think it’s a disgrace. Get a grip, pup. Show some spunk. Who’s in charge of that operation, anyway?

The black cat’s been returning to my yard. I thought I explained things to him, but I can tell he’s been coming around. He thinks I can’t smell? I know cat.

Down by the beach where I like to dig, that poufy, gray cat hides under the azaleas. Sits on the neighbor’s timber wall sneering at me when I’m walking my human. Well, she’ll get hers someday. Cats are disgusting creatures. Dumb as rocks. Dumber than Labradoodles even.

The gay couple who moved in up the street walk their two mutts and smile, always with the smiles. The one dog whines when we pass, but the Management promptly crosses the street so I never get a good butt sniff. How’re you supposed to show you support diversity, if you can’t sniff butts? Worse, I can’t show them who’s top dog in these parts. Half breeds. This other gay couple walk a baby stroller with a real live baby in it. Nice enough, but they have this nervous Shelty who’s always yammering about nothing. I thought you had to be two different sexes to have a baby, but they have one.

The neighbors’ Great Pyrenees is older than Hades, but he still gets his walkies every day. Both of his Management drive him to a level stretch and help in in and out of the van. He has a step to make it easy and a neat handle for his back legs. He’s a sizable fellow and very noble, so I try to be polite, and even sniff noses with him. I bet I can outrun him, though.

Zoom sucks

What would wanna make Management sit on high chairs and talk to that stupid computer on the counter with the tinny voices and shrunk heads all tilted at the wrong angle and lighting all wrong? Jeez, look at the one guy with his nose sticking in the camera. But the Management goes on and on sitting on those stools demolishing glasses of wine and pounds of cheeses imported from Maryland. They sit there so long they won’t go get dinner. What happened to Friday nights out? I used to catch a nice nap when they went out Fridays.

Hey, I’m still down here! How about a cracker at least? I’ve been rolling around on my back for the past ten minutes kicking my legs in the air looking cute. You think I do this for exercise? Come on!

Again last weekend, no guests for dinner. We haven’t thrown a proper dinner party since the whole covid thing started. That catered affair we did last Christmas? Yeah, but other than that, nothing. Management stays squirreled away inside week after week. Which means so do I. I’m dying for a good dinner party. There’s no one to jump on like when they used to visit. I can’t practice my welcoming lean-on-the-chest that people expect. Even the repairmen when they come wear masks. What’s with you people?

Going for takeout on Fridays is better than nothing. I get to hang my head out the window and drool down his car—the woman unit won’t let me in her car except on special occasions, like when they drive me to the beach, which they used to do a lot. Not since covid, though. I do enjoy it when she feeds me Silverado french fries. The fries are a little stale ‘cause they’re takeout. When the Management does Indian takeout, all I get is garlic naan—urp. He says he doesn’t think I’d try the lamb vindaloo, but you never know.

Wanna hear something weird? The Management has taken to eating out in a parking lot. Silverado set up a big tent in the parking lot where people take off their masks and order alcoholic drinks. Lots of alcoholic drinks. That business began last summer when there was no AC. I got to go with them, so I’d sit by the picnic table looking sharp, so the other diners would make comments, and the wait staff would bring me water and treats. I was a rock star at Silverado’s. Then it got cold, below freezing is perfect weather if you ask me, and what did the Management do? You guessed it; they started ordering takeout. I’ve tried telling them to grow some fur, but they don’t listen.

I miss the dog park. We only went once last year, and my Management’s male unit frowned seeing how half of the dogs had people who weren’t wearing masks. I’ve been waiting patiently—like always—to go back. Lots of dog butts to sniff at the dog park. I’d even hang with Annandale dogs, and you know how low brow those pooches can be. But I’m that desperate for socializing.

I miss the big beach by the ocean. We were there last July and haven’t been back since. Covid again, or so the Management claims. I’m especially talented at digging holes in the sand, throwing it with my front paws between my back legs, then sticking my head in the hole ‘till my nose is covered with sand. When I dig it deep enough, I can squeeze my whole body in. And people love watching me, especially the little tikes. No digging is allowed in the yard at home. Management keeps planting grass, and I keep eating it—when I’m not rolling in it. I’m winning.

It’s gotten so the neighborhood red fox follows us on our walks, thinks he’s one of the family. He’s an arrogant little beast, thinks he’s hot shit. I do like his black leggings, very stylish.

And the neighbors trapped the big racoon family, so there’s no one to growl at in the evening. The Management has taken to bungee-cording the trash cans, so the racoons have nothing to pillage like they do. Of course, I wouldn’t be caught dead dumpster diving. The occasional goose pate, but who doesn’t go for that?

I’m waiting for the deer to show up to nibble the hostas so I can chase them. The hostas are coming out of the ground, so it’s time. It’s also high time for the cicadas. Yum. Quality protein and the crunch is to die for.