I’ve had another vivid Covid-19 dream. It went like this:
Douglas Coupland announced that his pet dog had died of Covid-19. I was a reporter at the presser and smirked when he started to cry. Other reporters scowled at me and accused me of being heartless and insensitive.
“Oh, come on!” I shouted. “Dogs don’t die of Covid-19. This is just a stunt of his. Performance art. Those tears, they aren’t real.”
“Are you calling Covid-19 a hoax?”
“No. That’s got nothing—”
The other reporters had grown menacing, so I fled the room, annoyed that no one understood the difference between artistic expression and news reporting.
# # #
My cousin Mike and I were in a public broadcaster’s studio. It was jam-packed with people who were waiting on me to make an apology for my disrespectful comments about Douglas Coupland’s pet dog. Mike was there to make sure I did the right thing. I had no intention of apologizing and the room exploded when I made politically incorrect on-air comments about the dog.
When the crowd surged, Mike and I got separated which was a problem because I had promised his wife that I’d watch out for him. I could see him in the distance, so I knew he was okay; my main concern was that social distancing was impossible in such close quarters.
