When we look back on the great coronavirus (or “COVID-19” for those of you that are not so uncouth) of 2020 and the moments that shaped this experience for us, we will all certainly have distinct takeaways of the experience.

Moments where it seemed like uncertainty was the only thing we were certain about.

Moments where we no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t escape the gnarly embrace of fear.

Moments where the boredom was absolutely unbearable.

Moments where kindness was the only thing we could offer one another.

Moments where the slightest spark of optimism that one day this would be over is what kept us waking up every day.

Moments where we closed the bathroom door, ran a hot shower, allowed the bathroom to completely fill with a thick steam, gingerly climbed onto the bathroom top, and pressed our nude bodies (which were dripping in sweat that was about 70% sauvignon blanc, 20% weird bread we baked and 10% first-world oppression) on the bathroom mirror. We just wanted to see what a steam angel would look like… then, we lost our footing because our muscles were slightly atrophied from not standing at a happy hour bar like we’re used to doing on days of the week that end in “Y.” As we fell on the tiled floor, we hit our head on the bathroom scale (which read 11lbs as if that was a necessary piece of information right now) knocking ourselves unconscious and causing a thud so loud the entire household came rushing to the bathroom and kicked down the door only to find our naked steaming body lying on the floor like a pork dumpling at a Chinese restaurant (remember when we could sit in restaurants? Haha! Memories). As we came to and sat in our nude shame in front of the entire family who had nothing better to do than wonder what the hell we were doing, we quickly concocted a lie about how we tripped getting out of the shower (as if that’s any better. What are we? 75?) and what is all this “we” talk I keep using when this is a very specific event that hasn’t happened to you and yet I keep dragging you in with this “we” language and frankly, I should just shut my filthy mouth and move on to something else because it never fucking happened and why did I even feel it necessary to bring it up right now in front of company? This is exactly why everything I love leaves me. Read the fucking room, Pharra!

My defining moment came on a Saturday (or maybe it was a Wednesday when I decided to just stop caring about working for the day at 10:47am. It’s amazing they expect me to actually do things for more than two hours a day. Lol!) when I took a brief reprieve from staring at the wall to switch things up a bit, shift my body 90 degrees to the right, and stare out of the window. There, in all his fashionable glory, I witnessed a small, salt-and-pepper dog dressed in a green pullover walking himself in the neighborhood.

I mean, I’ve heard people say sometimes it feels like the dog walks them instead of them walking the dog, but I have never in my 30 years of walking this globally warming earth heard of a dog just walking himself without a human in tow. Just trotting along the sidewalk, pausing here and there to sniff (read) the hot gossip of the day other dogs have left behind, and responding with doggy tinkle laced with just the right amount of acidity to call another dog a “son of a bitch,” which is more of a statement than an insult in dog-speak. I don’t imagine doggy chatter to be that funny. Aggressive, definitely at times, but never really funny. They strike me as literal creatures.

Some (less imaginative) individuals may simply call that little salt-and-pepper puppy a “lost dog.” It’s funny how when we see a dog on his own, we assume it’s lost. A cat that’s out and about, however, probably just burned down the family home and is off to select a new batch of humans to sustain his dietary needs and provide a dry place for sleeping when the elements are inclement. I don’t think it’s fair to just assume this dog was lost because he’s a dog. Can’t he too just be over his family’s shit and need to step away before he loses it? Besides, this dog was strutting too confidently and with an enormous sense of purpose to be lost. Plus, HE HAD ON A SWEATER. You don’t just put on a sweater to sit around your house and eat dehydrated gizzards.

He was walking himself.

The pandemic of 2020 was rough on everyone, animals included. One day we were out playing beer pong with soiled solo cups and a ping pong ball that was “sanitized” from the floor germs in a second solo cup filled with cold tap water, happily coughing in one another’s faces and even blessing people when they sneezed instead of mentally screaming, “fuck you, you diseased ridden, plebe!” Then, the next day we were suddenly trapped inside of our homes with our families, roommates, or one-night stands that turned into quarantine comrades afraid to open mail and ready to spritz anyone that got closer than six feet with our homemade hand sanitizer that was more acid than germ-killing agent (corona can’t adhere to my skin if I don’t have any!).

And our pets. Our poor four-legged friends went from having a minute or two a day of attention to having to endure the smell of our bodies after not bathing for five straight days (because who were we trying to impress anymore?) and suddenly taking daily walks that were on average 35 miles. It’s called a walk, not a marathon. Chill out.

We all had to adjust to these sometimes stressful times. This little guy just needed a break; a few moments to breathe and lick his own butthole without being petted or told he was a good boy, you know? It’s like after a while the words begin to lose their meaning. How can he possibly be a good boy 87 times in one day? At some point he had to have been a bad boy or just a boy, but no. Every. Single. Time.

Walks into the living room.

“Good boy!”

Chews his squeaky toy.

“Good boy!”

Sniffs the air, smells his human’s unwashed body, and vomits dehydrated gizzards on to the eggshell colored carpet.

“Good boy!”

It was nice at first, but now every time he heard that ridiculous baby voice humans use on their pets, he felt himself wanting to be like the cat and just drag his paws down the side of the leather couch and leave partially dead birds in the kitchen. It was too much. He just needed a minute to chill and just be. Who was he without Marlene? (I’m not sure that’s his owner’s name. In fact, I’m positive I’ve never seen this dog at all in the neighborhood, but let’s not split dog hairs about it).

Besides his newly discovered brazen independence (he don’t need a man!), I think what I most admired about Fred Durst, (I named him this because he just kept rollin’ rollin’ rollin’ rollin’ and I will forget about him as quickly as he entered my life. Just like human Fred Durst) was that he had the wherewithal to put on a tiny doggy sweater before heading out. Like he knew it was going to be a tepid evening for his late afternoon jaunt and didn’t want to risk getting too chilly.

Independent, fashionable, and practical?!

If I didn’t already know how fiercely self-sufficient Fred Durst was and felt more comfortable in our home décor of which I just knew he’d judge, I’d go outside and lure him into my home with the raw chicken I was defrosting for myself later and make him mine.

No. What’s wrong with me?

A refined dog on his evening jaunt in a Mister Rogers meets NY Fashion week sweater can’t be lured with a cold, limp chicken breast. I’d at least grill it. Maybe season it with a little cumin, salt and pepper. Nothing too fancy so as not to come on too strong, but enough to show that I’ve put in some effort and completely respect him as a dog and possibly superior entity.

Are we the master species or have dogs just let us think we’re the master species? When a dog takes a shit, it’s always some silly human bending down with an old grocery bag to pick up the feces while the dog showers them with rogue grass hairs. Then, they are forced to hang on to that warm pile of shit until it can be disposed of properly. Some of us even praise dogs when they take a shit. Who has trained whom exactly?

I decided to introduce myself to Fred.

I had to play it cool. First, I’d need to change out of my quarantine onesie and put on… what do people even wear outside of the home anymore? Would I be doing too much if I slipped on a skirt? No. I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks. While his legs may be covered in fur and that is acceptable, I, as both human and woman, am not allowed that forgiving grace. The double standards for women transcend species.

How would I even go about striking up conversation? What’s my motivation for even being outside in the first place? Was I going to climb a tree in the front yard? No, not at my age. That just screams delusional. A worldly dog like Fred Durst would catch on to that immediately and wouldn’t even return the delusion ball.

I could act like I was going to get the mail and give him a nonchalant, “how’s it going?” to hopefully strike up some casual small talk. Does Fred Durst even do small talk? Probably not.

Before heading out to acquaint myself with the only neighbor I’ve ever felt like sharing pleasantries with, I decided to spend a few minutes catching up on world events, quickly brushing up on quantum mechanics, and listening to Billboard’s Top Japanese Songs of 2019. You never know where a wildcard like little Fred Durst would take the conversation and I needed to be prepared for anything so as not to make a fool of myself.

Finally, armed with at least two bullet points for every possible world event that occurred in the last four weeks (there wasn’t a ton of news seeing as how the world was shut down and whatnot), a new appreciation of the Japanese concept of “boketto” (turns out I do this at least 237 times a day. I may have undiagnosed ADD), and dressed in a red and yellow paisley print Zara button-down paired with dark jeans and finished with some classic all white Adidas sneakers (how Euro of me), I set out to meet Fred Durst. I walked down my driveway toward the mailbox with a gait that was deliberate, yet delicate. Assured, but tender. Coy, but ridiculous.

I opened the mailbox, realized the mail hadn’t run yet, quickly closed the box hoping Fred hadn’t noticed and still committed to the task at hand, turned toward Fred Durst in his beautiful knit sweater and mustered a suave, “hey.”

Fred looked up from sniffing one of those little flags they stick in people’s yards after dousing it with chemicals that are supposed to make it seem like one actually tends to their lawn instead of just dying it green, looked at me aaaand

started yipping manically and running away turning to yip in doglish about how stupid I am (I assume) every few feet because he’s a fucking dog in a PetSmart sweater and the only human words he understands are probably sit (he’ll do it when he’s ready), stay (make him), fetch (you threw it, you get it), and his own name (no way in hell that dog wasn’t named Fred Durst).

I should find some hobbies.