My Bubble-mate

This week marks nine months of working from home. The residents of my bubble (me and Toodles) elected not to celebrate the holidays. We talked about a party but decided to follow expert advice and avoid social gatherings.

To be totally honest, Toodles was never a fan of the party idea. Crowds aren’t really her thing. For her, two is perfect and three is a potential riot. ANTIFA and Proud Boys are everywhere.

Though we generally agree on politics, we do have our differences. I think she should go out the doggie door to our fenced-in backyard without me. She disagrees, and insists I’m stingy with the treats. No matter the fight, we never go to bed angry.

Pandemic fatigue has not been an issue. In fact, you’d be hard-pressed to find two individuals happier to be stuck at home. We’re together pretty much 24/7 and move through our days like old married couples dance.

She goes on high alert when I put on shoes. These days that often means I’m going somewhere. She mopes when I get back and won’t leave my lap for the rest of the day. I don’t know if she’s making up for lost time or making sure I don’t leave again.

In the past, she’s had no desire to stay outside when I’m working in the yard. That’s changed since the pandemic. She’ll come out and do her own thing. Her nonchalance leads me to believe she’s just keeping an eye on my whereabouts.

She’s diabetic and going on twelve years old. Most of her teeth are gone. No more chew treats — she struggles with the little chunk of cheese she gets with her insulin injection. Having lost her brother Tico three years ago, every day we have together is a gift.

It’s hard to say which of us is happier. This won’t last forever. Nothing does. Whether days, weeks, or years, I’m making the most of our remaining time together. For now, life in our little bubble is pretty good.