Alone in a House, Alone

Day 2 of “Voluntary” Self-Quarantine:

Considering I began working from home over a year ago, it’s really Day 380-something for ol’ Shasta. Let that sink in. I have little sympathy for people who are feeling a little cabin-feverish after 36 hours.

That being said, since I wasn’t part of the panicking hordes cleaning out every grocery store over the weekend, by today things were getting a little spare in the pantry. I ate my last egg this morning, savoring it like it was a $95/ounce porcine-sourced truffle from southern France. Eggs have been in short supply this week. “I had to fork over a bunch of money to buy your kind of expensive eggs from the happy hens,” my sister told me, miffed in a socially-distant phone call – my sister who usually buys what I can only assume are unhappy eggs from Wal-Mart.

“You’ll like them better,” I assured her. “Happy hens make happy eggs!” I sang the last part.

The dogs are bored too, but then they are always bored unless they are eating or walking. I just bought a dog pen for them. Now that I’m going to more rescue events, I want to be able to take them and keep them put. It just got delivered from Amazon today, and both dogs sniffed it and looked at me, pained, like, “We’re not ANIMALS, Mom!”

Yes, you are. You are my emotional support dogs as we go through this crisis. Do you know that I actually looked up whether or not you could give your dogs the coronavirus? Turns out, maybe. But probably not. Apparently, there was some pooch in Hong Kong who got it, but reports are inconclusive. I don’t know that too many dogs are being tested these days, so who knows.

All I know is, thank God for Facebook and other social media. All of you families might have to resort to talking to each other, but for single folks like me, I’m not sure I’d survive.

I don’t have much else to report, as my dad says whenever I call home and catch him for five minutes. Me either, Dad.