We’ve just completed our first day under the new, tougher measures intended to slow the spread of SARS-CoV-2 and we’ve found it strangely calming.

For some weeks now we’ve felt very at odds with the general public’s attitude to the virus.  On dog walks I’ve gone out of my way to avoid contact with others, while they’ve been happy stop and chat to one another in close proximity, seemingly oblivious to the risk of infection. In my fitness photography business I’ve had to bite back the urge to contradict prospective clients when they’ve been saying “Why would the gyms close? This coronavirus thing isn’t even as bad as regular flu.” When the government’s advice got stronger but people still didn’t seem to be changing their habits we knew tougher measures were coming, and I was very concerned that we might end up losing the right to walk Beanie and Biggles entirely.

If Biggles could sense any tension from me, he didn’t show it. As long as he got his food on time, could ram his furry bottom into my face when making a bed next to me on the sofa, and was still able to trade socks for treats, all was right in his world.

Beanie however clearly picked up on my worries and began following me around like a velcro dog.  Any time I left the room, she had to keep tabs on me. When I returned from an unavoidable trip to the local shop for milk, she danced round me as though I’d been gone for days. Any time Susan stretched out on the sofa for a nap, Beanie would mount her legs for a stress-relieving and highly vigorous humping session. The only time my little girl could properly relax was when the whole pack was together in the living room.

Now the “lockdown” has happened and the rules have been spelled out, all that has changed. Dog walks are still on the menu, and Beanie and Biggles can still enjoy two each day, so long as I do one while Susan does the other. I took the furries out for their first constitutional this morning. Just as we were setting out we encountered a neighbor returning from their walk; I automatically moved to the extreme opposite side of the street, and for the first time they did the same, allowing us to pass each other whilst staying well over the recommended 2 metres apart.

I took the pups along country roads that I know to be very, very quiet; ordinarily I could do that same walk every day for a month and barely meet another soul. Today – ironically due to the lockdown rules – I encountered several other walkers and cyclists, but they all knew to keep to their side of the road. I’m not wild about having our freedom curtailed like this, but it’s a big relief to me that everyone finally seems to be taking the threat seriously. As I’ve relaxed, so has The Beanster. She’s still humping Susan’s legs of course, but now the rumpy-pumpy is less desperate and no longer resembles a scene from an extreme porn flick.

All we need now is for the supermarkets to get their acts together, implement social distancing policies and stock the shelves, and maybe we can get through this thing without getting infected. I just hope they do that soon, because our supply of bone-shaped biccies isn’t going to last forever.

Waddya mean the biccies are running out! Get to the shops now Dad, this is an emergency!

Biggles’ Teddy, horribly injured in an uncontrolled nibbling accident.

A bear, barely alive!

We can rebuild him.

We have the technology.

We can make him better than he was.

Better! Stronger! Squeakier!

We can make him the world’s first bionic ten-squeakered teddy!

Just take care of him Biggles, and make sure that Beanie doesn’t get hold of him!!!

I’ve lost track of the number of serious roadside paw emergencies that I’ve fixed using a magic finger rub, but now I’ve used a variation of the same technique to cure an unwell tummy. The owner of that unwell tummy was of course The Beanster, who has a lot of “form” in that area. She’d appeared completely normal on her morning walk and had speed-swallowed her breakfast right after it, but a couple of hours later her appetite seemed to be waning.

Raise Periscope!!

Biggles had just put his latest acquisition on show – one of Susan’s more recent pink sports socks – and since it hadn’t yet been chewed I decided to “buy” it from him. Half a bone-shaped biccie will usually be enough to secure a small sports sock, but today the price had been raised to a full cheese-flavored crisp from our local Poundstretcher store.

Beanie – as the co-owner of Biggles’ sock business – was due a cheese crisp too, but she hadn’t come to the kitchen to collect it despite all the excited jumping and woofing from his lordship. This in itself wasn’t unusual; sometimes when she’s napping she’ll leave it to me to bring the treat to her, and because I’m such a mug that’s exactly what I did. I dropped the crisp on the sofa beside her and watched quietly, expecting to see her waking up and then struggling to escape the tightly wrapped blanket that stands between her and the latest edible item. Her head popped up and she did poke her snout out from under her blanket to sniff the crisp, but there was no snatching and munching – she just left it and went back to sleep. I noted this without being overly concerned by it, but when I later served up her tea and she ignored that too – undeniable confirmation that there was “trouble at t’mill”.

The next day her appetite still hadn’t returned and there was talk of a vet visit. Given that it was now the weekend, said visit would have cost close to a grand as we were into “Vets Now” time. Keen not to spend that kind of money unless it was absolutely necessary, I grabbed her bowl and put a little serving of Greek yoghurt into it; in the past, yoghurt has worked when all other food has been rejected. I got nothing but disinterest (apart from Biggles of course – I had his full attention), but I wasn’t willing to give up that easy. I announced my intention to use my magic fingers, and to make them even more magic, I coated them in yoghurt. After the briefest of hesitation Beanie’s tongue whipped out and licked all that yoghurty magic right off my fingers. I held the bowl up to her mouth for another helping, but no, that wasn’t good enough; it had to be served on magic fingers.

Behold the amazing telescopic prehensile tongue of the Beanster: short setting

and long setting…

I’m always wary of pandering to Beanie’s demands in these situations – I’ve never forgotten how she kept pushing her luck as a little pup, going on hunger strike if we didn’t serve up ever tastier and more exotic options with each meal – but I went with it anyway and managed to get a fair serving of healthy yoghurt into her. A few hours later The Beanster was back to her normal self, dancing excitedly as her teatime meal was delivered. I can’t say for sure whether it was the yoghurt that fixed her or the magic finger treatment, but I do know this: it cost a heck of a lot less than a trip to the vet.