Give this pandemic pooch his space

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 14/04/2020 (2170 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Welcome to Jen Tries, a semi-regular feature in which Free Press columnist Jen Zoratti will try something new and report back. In this instalment, Jen Tries… walking while physical distancing.

‘Can I go for a walk outside?”

I’m not sure what your Pandemic Googles look like but, for me, that query was up there along with “when will this end?” and “droplets in air????”

For the past month, I have only left my house to walk the dog. In the time before, walking the dog often sat in the middle of the Venn diagram between life-affirming exercise (when it’s sunny) and procrastinated-upon chore (when it’s raining). Now, walking the dog is a lifeline. The physical and mental health benefits of walking outside are well documented, but they seem more important — more vital — than ever.

But walking is also incredibly fraught right now. That most simple act of head-clearing, de-stressing exercise has become anxiety-provoking in the age of social distancing. Maintaining the required two metres of distance feels like a stressful dance for which people are making up their own choreography. How do you distance in a packed park? How do you pass the slow-moving family walking four abreast without stumbling into traffic?

Still, as the owner of an unfriendly little shih tzu/Maltese mix, I’m actually somewhat used to distancing. We’ve been distancing since before it was cool. And by “cool“ I mean “government mandated.”

It isn’t that Samson is a mean dog. He’s just not here to make friends. To us (and select people), he’s sweet, cuddly and loyal. He barks a big game about being protective of me when there’s a pane of glass between him and people walking by, but he’s also a nervous boy who startles easily. Here is a short list of things that have traumatized him on walks: any toddler yelling, ‘a puppy!’, a soccer ball hitting a chain-link fence, a For Sale sign creaking in the wind, a leaf blowing into his face, his shadow.

Still, because he looks like he has a Gund tag located somewhere on his body — a teddy bear come to life — kids want to pat him. People smile and say hi to him without making eye contact with me. And, worst of all, people really want their dogs to meet him.

I get it. He is, in my totally objective and not-at-all biased opinion, the cutest dog to ever grace the planet. He’s adorable. He hates you. I’m sorry.

This is particularly problematic because I live in River Heights, which must be the dog capital of Winnipeg. Sometimes I think the phrase “everyone and their dog” originated here because everyone and their dog is always out walking, all the time, even during a pandemic.

Under normal circumstances, Samson naturally gives people a wide berth, only to have his efforts mostly disrespected. “Don’t worry, she/he is friendly!” owners of large dogs call out to me, as their chocolate Labs come loping towards us and Samson tries to Scooby Doo into my arms. Some people will even wait for us on the corner, grinning, their beagles and Pomeranians straining at their leashes with anticipation. “Oh no,” I say under my breath through gritted, fake-smiling teeth. “Please don’t make me have this conversation.”

Look, I can tell you, with certainty, that Samson absolutely does not want to meet your goldendoodle. He’d like your German shepherd to keep it moving, and your cocker spaniel to kindly take off. Sometimes, he will express a passing interest in another shih tzu or the occasional bichon frise, but only rarely. Golden retrievers are Public Enemy No. 1 (too friendly). Cats confuse and alarm him.

I assume the dogs themselves don’t care, owing to the fact they are dogs. People, however, take this extremely personally. I have been openly tsked for my dog’s personality. I used to feel bad about having to say, “Sorry, my dog is not friendly,” and worse about crossing the street. It feels rude, even though I am protecting my dog, and possibly yours too.

There’s a familiar, uncomfortable symmetry between “don’t worry, he’s friendly” and “don’t worry, I’m not sick.” We’re required to make snap assessments of harm. Will my dog snarl at yours? Will you forget to cough into your elbow? Is this interaction worth it?

I’ve learned that practising physical distancing on a walk, which is the best way to mitigate the spread of this virus, requires being assertive. Get comfortable with crossing the street, or changing your route on a dime. Get comfortable with saying, “Sorry, we can’t stop,” when people try to stop to chat. Which they will. Still. The big lesson in all of this is that you can only control what you can control. Avoid places where there are lots of joggers, panting moistly. Take your walks earlier or later. Go for solo strolls where possible.

There is evidence that social norms are slowly changing, though. It no longer feels rude to cross the street or change direction. The boulevards now bear footprints of people making room for each other. The smile and nod of has replaced the “good morning.” The apologetic game of chicken at street corners serves as an unspoken acknowledgement of how weird everything is. This is what taking care of each other looks like right now. We’re protecting our health, and each other’s too.

As for Samson, he’s currently living his best life. But I sort of miss being close enough to another person to say, “Sorry, my dog is not friendly. Enjoy your walk.”

jen.zoratti@freepress.mb.ca

Twitter: @JenZoratti