About six years ago, I posted a piece called Westie Wonk on my website – about how in adopting Betsy from the Pound, I had accidentally joined a club. A club in which I can be approached by a total stranger and asked, “Is that a Westie? I’ve got a Westie too! Aren’t they great?”
In the intervening years, Betsy has trained me very well. And we are now two old ladies, happy in our dotage. The pandemic lockdown has been a boon to dogs everywhere (well, except the ones who are getting walked half to death in Spain, because dogless people are borrowing their neighbours’ dogs just to get out of the house) I wouldn’t say that Betsy is thrilled — that’s too strong an emotion for this very reserved breed — but I can tell that she is pleased to have me around all day.
Anyhow, it happened that after about three weeks of hunkering down and making nervous forays into Shopper’s for supplies, I decided to try emailing a food order to my local health food store. I got a call Sunday evening to confirm, with a promise that it would arrive on my doorstep soon.
So I’m on the couch, (re) watching Season One of The West Wing – because it’s intelligent and funny and idealistic and reassuring, dammit! – when I hear someone on the front porch. Betsy does her duty, of course, and rushes toward the door, barking furiously.
I take my time opening the door, giving the delivery person time to get away from the ferocious beast behind it. And when I do, I see a young man out on the street in front of my house, getting into his car. Betsy rushes down the front steps, still barking furiously. (At what she’s not quite sure, because she’s fourteen now and has cataracts.)
But the young delivery guy pauses and calls over the roof of his car, “Hey, is that a Westie? I have a Westie too!”
And as I bend to collect my pandemic groceries, I call back I “Aren’t they great?”
