The Times - UK (2022-01-13)

2 Thursday January 13 2022 | the times

times2

I’ve been offered a

dog. Should I take

her? Help me decide!

O

n December 19,

after a week of

near-hourly

negative lateral flow

and PCR tests, I

flew to Thailand for

a much longed-for

break. When I

stepped off the plane, I took another

PCR, and headed to my hotel. The

next morning I received a text

informing me I had tested positive.

The Omicronicles begin

“One night!” the hazmat-suited Koh

Samui public health official shouted,

gesturing firmly at the ambulance

waiting outside my hotel. “You test

negative, you come back straight away.

You test positive, you stay in hospital

for one night. One night!”

Koh Samui hospital

I took in my surroundings. Narrow

hospital bed, zero creature comforts

(unless the creature in question is ants,

in which case far too many creature

comforts). On the wall? Instructions

to download Line, a messaging app

via which the nurses communicated

using a baffling combination of terse

instructions and cutesy cartoon

animal gifs. One of the first messages

I received was a relaxing warning that

non-cooperation would be met with a

year in prison. “This information not

for scary you but it a truth to know

and understand.” But, I confess, it did

scary me. It did.*

Meals appeared silently outside my

room, each one a unique mystery.

These included “sausages with sachets

of jam” and the “plastic bag o’ broth”.

And “Unspecified Paste Sandwich”.

The look: formless beige mush with

grey flecks. The smell: onion mixed

with blue cheese. Taste: we will simply

never know.

As I attempted to come to terms

with a lifestyle I optimistically

rebranded as “Surprisolation”, I

adjusted my holiday lifestyle

expectations.

A chance to sleep? More like a

chance to record my own medical

measurements every four hours,

including 2am and 6am.

A chance to relax? How about: a

chance to be woken up by someone

coming in at 4am to x-ray my chest.

(My lungs were fine. I remained

asymptomatic throughout my stay,

which — while a huge relief — added

to the surreality of the experience.)

Yep, it was deeply strange. And yet

humans have a powerful ability to

recalibrate themselves. After five

nights I found myself becoming

strangely comfortable with my small,

sparse, universe... which is exactly

when I was told I was being moved.

The field hospital

“You are being taken to a field

hospital. Pack your things now.” So

came the edict, out of nowhere, from

my Line app (followed up by a gif

of a cartoon sheep bowing, obviously).

A cursory googling of “Thai field

hospital” — which brought up images

of militarised factory warehouses

containing 600 beds — led to a mild

nervous breakdown. But, miraculously,

our new location was a repurposed

villa resort. The bed was a double, the

shower functional. It was paradise.

And yet. Although the surroundings

were infinitely more luxurious, the

rules governing the place were, for

some reason, far stricter than the

actual hospital. The spacious sun-

kissed balcony directly outside my

room was, heartbreakingly, off-limits.

All deliveries were tightly policed. An

extension cable was forbidden because

it could be used as a noose. And, most

mysteriously punitive of all, no booze.

Again came a period of

readjustment and negotiation. A cord-

free plug was eventually permitted.

To my surprise and delight, the

balcony was suddenly greenlit for use,

presumably on the basis that it was

located so far from anyone else, the

only thing I’d be able to transmit to

another person would be my intense

sense of loneliness. And, after three

days of tense, high-level parleying, the

hospital allowed in some wine — for

the purposes of Havdalah, the Jewish

ritual that, to my gratitude, requires a

glass that’s full to overflowing. It

doesn’t specifically require that you

keep the remainder of the bottle on

hand for sundry emergencies, but I

feel it’s sort of implied.

Extension leads

were forbidden

— they could be

used as a noose

Deborah Ross

R

eaders, help me,

please, I am

paralysed by

indecision. I go

one way, then the

other, then retrace

over and over.

And over. Here

is my dilemma: I’ve been offered

a dog, a girl. Should I take her?

Yes. But also no. But alternatively

yes. However, I am going to have

to say no. You see? You see how

it goes? The offer isn’t going to

hang around for ever so, no

pressure, but I am rather

depending on you here. You don’t

have to give your answer straight

away, but in the next ten minutes

would be good.

As you know, my beloved dog

died a couple of years ago. I don’t

know if he died the same day

Whitehall was having a party,

although that seems likely. (If

there is a Sue Gray, which we

won’t know until Sue Gray

investigates whether there is a

Sue Gray, wouldn’t it be easier for

her to count the days Whitehall

wasn’t having a party?*)

But back to the dog matter at

hand. As my late dog was the best

dog, the greatest dog, and as we

were so in tune with one another,

I thought he could not be

replaced in any way, and that was

that, and I have never actively

searched. But then a friend of a

friend of a friend said that they

knew of a dog that was available,

a terrier mix, 20 months old. She’s

house-trained and all that, but

her owner can’t fully look after

her and does not wish to take her

to a rescue centre where she is

likely to be kennelled for a period.

I have been sent pictures of the

dog. She is adorable. One shows

her meeting another dog in the

park (very friendly) and the other

in bed, under the duvet, with her

head on the pillow, which is just

where a dog should be in my

opinion. I have only stared at

that photo 78,900 times. A day.

It’s true, I do yearn to have a

dog again. I do look after other

people’s dogs — “Of course I

didn’t let her on the bed!” — but

it’s not the same. I yearn to have

my own dog at my side, at my

feet, to take to the pub or on a

train, so that others might say,

“Can I pet your dog?” And I will

say, “Of course,” and kvell.

Actually, I am baffled by those

who don’t ask if they may pet a

dog. You’re sitting near what is,

without question, the most

beautiful, most noble creature in

the world and you don’t wish to

touch? You’re nuts, my friend.

And I miss other things. I miss

the click-clack of paws

descending from upstairs because

he’s sensed a banana is about to

be peeled. I miss the exercise —

dogs are the gym you have to go

to every day. I once compiled a

list of things dogs would never

say even if they could speak and

high up was: “You look bushed.

Let’s forget the walk today.” (Full

disclosure: I consider a dogless

walk pointless). I miss coming

home to a rapturous reception.

I miss witnessing a dog crash

through bushes and puddles —

the whole point of a walk, surely

— although not jumping onto the

bench and trying to nuzzle in on

a mum breastfeeding, because

that was plain embarrassing.

But. But, but, but. Dogs are said

to reduce stress, yet for me they

are a constant source of anxiety.

Is that oncoming bull-type dog

going to rip my dog’s throat out?

Is he scratching because he’s

scratching or is it fleas? Is he

really trying to nudge the

breastfeeding baby out the way?

Oh God, fireworks. Plus, you have

to factor a dog into everything

while ensuring he’s not left alone

for too long, and it’s like being a

traffic controller, monitoring

who’s in, who’s out, who’s in but

will be out, who’s out but will be

in. (Will you be in next Tuesday?

“I don’t know yet.” When will you

know? “I don’t know when I’ll

know yet.”) Then there’s the death

thing. Chances are I’ll outlive it

and will have to go through all

that again. I am actually minded

not to dog up again until I’m 98,

when the chances are it’ll outlive

me. Then it’ll know what it’s like.

I can arrange to see this dog on

offer, but I haven’t because I’ve

never met a dog I didn’t like, so I

know it would seal the deal, and

feel I have to be clear in my mind

first. So what is it? Yes? Or no.

(*Does everything have to wait

for this inquiry to be concluded?

Can I pick up my dry cleaning?)

Bring in

the unvax

tax now

patients who would

also be pushed into a

critical condition by flu,

say. But mostly there

are the unvaccinated

who, in some instances,

he said, accept

treatment while

claiming that the

disease doesn’t exist. “It

makes me want to tear

my hair out,” he said.

This set me thinking.

There’s a sugar tax and

there’s an alcohol tax

and there’s a tobacco

tax. These are

principally to dissuade

people from certain

behaviours, but also

earn the Treasury a

good amount, so if you

become obese, or your

liver packs up, or your

lungs pack up you have,

in a way, contributed

financially to your care.

So why not an unvax

tax? Which could be

deducted at source if

you’re PAYE, or you’d

have to declare your

vaccination status on

your tax return? But

then, I suppose,

following that logic

you might choose to

tax people who don’t

take any exercise...

Best get a dog, hadn’t I?

Or not. (Actually, yes.

But also no.)

I was lately talking to

a doctor who said that

the Covid patients at

his hospital fall into

two categories. There

are the already frail

Failing a PCR test

led to ten days of

confinement and

communication

via cartoon gifs

for Max Olesker

Covid in Koh

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