I was never so happy seeing a Beagle tending his ballings, to quote my dear grandfather, as I was this morning after a major meltdown yesterday.
I’ve been quite valiant since my shelter-in-place began, but even Norma Rae-Pollyanna-Joan of Bark has her limits.
I wailed all day like a sick moose. Didn’t run, write nor read, my three mainstays, giving in to the gloom as if my sanity had been hijacked.
God bless 12 Step when I heard in my muddled head…
MOVE A MUSCLE…CHANGE A THOUGHT….
so out I went.
Who do I see but Mr. Beagle, owned by Mr. Bow Tie, a dapper, natty man I’ve come to like. His wife, who thinks she’s Brook Astor, you could have, but I’d take him in a heartbeat.
He told me, the only problem he has with his mask is that it interferes with his tie. He grins as he talks, humor escaping through dimples, despite the gravity of what’s upon us.
His dog and I have a love hate relationship, but not today. Seems Mr. Beagle knew I was not my best self and was on the case, allowing me, after his morning schvitz, to pet him for a good five minutes, while dad regaled me with stories of his posh, prewar building that Princess Diana, after her divorce, almost moved into.
He said, a woman on 9, calling her a creature from the deep since she’s originally from Watertown, Connecticut, till she married up, as he put it, wanted an emergency board meeting to not allow tenants to come home if they’d been flying.
“Let them go to a hotel,” she said, her furs flying.
Not only did the board not meet, but they were the ones she didn’t realize she was trying to send to the Ritz.
This man had me giggling while Mr. Beagle calmed me right down.
When I asked how Mrs. Bow Tie was dealing with things, he said, she was busy buying jewelry online.
“From the Home Shopping Network?” I naively ask, and he says, “Oh honey, I so wish. Cartier any minute will be sending me a fruit basket.”
What Mr. Beagle, did you just say balls?
I think he did, as he went back to giving his their final shine.