What's a Quarantine in Dog Years?

Sometimes I'm nothing more than a dictionary for beagles. (Actually, that's a promotion.  Most of the time I'm simply a kibble dispenser.)

Tommy and Tuppence, the Beagle Posse. took their place in front of my recliner.  Tuppy asked, "What's a Florentine."

"That's someone from Florence."

"No, like a Florentine for tiresus?"  The Posse listens to cable, but not too closely--they might miss the sound of a morsel hitting the floor in the kitchen.

"Oh, you mean a quarantine for virus."

"That's what I said."  Also, q is a hard letter for beagles to form.

"It's a time," I said, "when people or animals have to be kept separate so they don't spread disease."

Tommy joined. "How long is it, and do we get fed during it?"

I said, "It's as long as it takes, usually not more than two weeks, and you don't have to worry, you aren't in quarantine. I'll feed you."

"What's this two weeks?" asked Tuppence.  "How long is that in dog time?"

Readers of this blog know, I spend a lot of time in conversation with dogs. I have begun to understand their time. Basically, it consists of "right now," "five minutes," "forever," and "suppertime."  For instance, if we leave the Posse alone in the house for five minutes or five hours, it is exactly the same amount of time.  And, if during that period of time, a meal schedule should pass, it instantly becomes Forever. That old saw about "dog years"--one human year equals 7 dog years--is nonsense to a dog. They don't contemplate any kind of life span.  They are all, "Now," "Never," "Suppertime."

"Are we florentined?" asked Tommy.

"No," I said. "No one in this house is sick, so we don't have to be quarantined. What we are doing is Social Distancing.  Trying to make sure we stay healthy."

"How's that workin'?"

"Well, we're staying home. Keeping out of crowds. Only going out when needed. Washing our hands thoroughly. And we're keeping watch for any symptoms."

"In other words," said Tuppence, "living just like you old farts usually live."

"With more hand washing," interjected Tommy. "What causes symptoms?"

"Germs, mostly.  Tiny, tiny evil things called bacteria and virus."

"Oh," said Tuppence. "Tiny evil things like squirrels."

"No, much, much smaller than that."

"Chipmunks, then."

"No, REALLY tiny.  You need something called a microscope to see them, and then some are even smaller than that."

Tommy snorted, "If we can't see 'em, we can smell 'em. Nothing escapes our beagly powers.  Is it suppertime?"

"No, it isn't."

"But we've been sitting here talking forever."

"A bit more than five minutes," I said.

"FOREVER!" said the Beagle Posse in unison.

"Look," I said, "we feed you on a regular schedule.  Seven in the morning and five in the evening. And we don't miss it."

"Our tummy clocks say you do."

"Yeah, dogs, I know how that works. Suppertime is five, so at four you start whining, dancing, and campaigning for your supper."

"Our clocks don't work like your clocks."

"Yeah, well if I gave in and fed you at 4:30, tomorrow you'd start campaigning at 3:30; and if that worked, and I fed you at 4:00, the next day you'd start at 3:00. I don't plan to try to sync up my clock to your tummies."

"Old English Beagle proverb," said Tuppy. "Never try to wind another man's clock."

"Ugh, Tuppy, that could go to some weird places I don't think this blog should go."

Tommy said, "We were talking about how long we'd be florentined."

"We're not quarantined, we're social distancing, and we aren't sure how long it will be."

"FOREVER!" said the Beagle Posse in unison.

Tuppy said, "Fine.  Feed us supper."