This evening, as I was striding down a street, I noticed a small, white dog on a leash start running across the street toward us. I could tell she was not going to stop when she reached the curb, even though there was an SUV coming down the street. The dog's owner was yelling at her to stop. She didn't stop.
She charged across the blacktop toward my puppy and me. I stopped walking, waited for the little white dog to approach us. The SUV slowed to a crawl, waited. The little white dog approached my puppy, and they began doing the butt-sniffing dance of canine greeting. I put my foot on the little white dog's red leash, so that she could not run away as her owner approached.
I wasn't wearing a mask. Usually on my walks, I am very good at avoiding people. The owner of the dog, however, I could not escape. She needed to retrieve her pet. As she came nearer, she slowed and kept saying, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." She stopped six feet from me, and we both stood staring at each other, wondering how we were going to handle the situation.
I smiled at her. "It's okay," I said. I reached down and picked up her dog's leash. "Your puppy's just excited." I held the end of the leash out to her. She leaned forward, took the leash, and then stepped back. She smiled.
"Thank you," she said.
I nodded. Then, I began walking again.
It is probably the first time I have spoken to a complete stranger since March. It was almost as if I didn't remember the rules of polite interaction, and I could tell that she was dealing with similar feelings. There was awkwardness, tinged with a little fear. Yet, the human connection--even for just a few seconds--was wonderful. A miracle.
Michigan's governor, Gretchen Whitmer, just made mask-wearing the law. If you don't mask up, you get fined. A coworker of mine, who walks around all day with her mask hanging around her chin like a feedbag, said something on Friday like, "Governor Witless has done it again. I'm so sick of her." I didn't respond to my coworker's comment. I can't engage in political debate in the work setting, even though mask-wearing shouldn't be a political issue, especially with a healthcare worker who should know better.
And I should have been wearing a mask tonight. I wasn't. The owner of the white dog should have been wearing a mask. She wasn't. Our interaction lasted all of ten seconds. It was a human moment, without any political overtones. She was relieved her puppy hadn't gotten hit by the SUV. I was happy to have played a tiny part in making sure that her puppy didn't get injured.
Tomorrow, when I take my puppy for a walk, I will be wearing a mask. It's the law, and I don't mind enduring this slight inconvenience to insure that everyone stays healthy and safe.
Tonight, Saint Marty gives thanks for a brief moment of normal human connection in the midst of a pandemic.
Poem from Kyrie
by: Ellen Bryant Voigt
No longer just a stream, not yet a pond,
the water slowed and deepened, banks eroded,
redwing blackbird roosting on a stalk,
sometimes that rippled vee plowing the surface.
Each clear day, she walked to the willow oak,
raked the anemic grass, tidied the mounds,
walked back down to the house by way of the creek.
If the beaver had put in a stick, she took it out.
If a storm had dropped a branch, she hauled it off.
When milder weather came, she tucked her skirts
at the waist and waded in, dislodging trash
the beaver would recover. Months of this.
Twice she sent for the neighbors to trap it or shoot it.,
but each time Fan said Emmett don't you dare.
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