who let the dog out?

When I was growing up outside of Milwaukie, Oregon, we lived next door to a retired couple, Mr. and Mrs. Saywell (because older people had not yet been issued first names that could be used by children), who owned a dachshund named Lucky.

Lucky was not a pleasant dog. He barked at everything and would bit any ankle not fast enough to escape his Jurassic dental work.

But what I remember most about Lucky is that he was an inside dog. Very few of our dogs were ever allowed inside the house. So, I thought Lucky's life was certainly not consistent with his name.

Whenever he saw an opportunity, Lucky would bolt out the front door with Mrs. Saywell in hot pursuit calling his name. She could never catch him. He usually ended up in his prison only when some brave neighborhood kid would whisk him up and take him home, at arms-length, while Lucky bit the air like a frustrated snapping turtle.

This isolation during The Pestilence has improved my opinion of the long-dead Lucky. Whenever my front door opens, I feel like running out with no idea of ever returning to my confinement.

Last Tuesday a friend called asking if I could give her a ride to Manzanillo on an essential task. I jumped at the opportunity. Even though I have come to detest the one-hour drive to Manzanillo, I saw this as a Lucky moment.

Now, I could try to justify the trip with the errands I have put off for the past eight weeks. I needed to buy some medication, that I cannot order elsewhere, from Sam's Club. I had two items that needed to be dropped at the dry cleaners. And I needed to have the film on my glasses re-coated, or, failing that, buy a pair of back-up glasses.

A quick review of that list lets you know why I had not yet driven to Manzanillo. All of the items could have waited -- except for the medication. But doing a friend a favor justified them all.

I dropped off my dry cleaning and then dropped off my friend before stopping at Sam's Club for my tablets. While I was there, I picked up a few cleaning supplies for Dora and some exotic sausages and cheese that I cannot find locally. I almost had the entire warehouse to myself.

My eyeglass task went unfilled. There was a sign in the shop window that the entire chain was closed because they were non-essential. Getting a spare pair of glasses can wait.

While I was at the shopping center (where the shoe shops must be considered as essential), I decided to stop at La Comer. Irene Fairles, a reader on Facebook, told me that the major grocery store in her town has arrows drawn on the aisles making them one-way and restricting one cart to an aisle. We laughed about whether that would be effective in Mexico.

Well, La Comer does have a system. The store herds all customers through one door where three armed security men stand guard. Carts cannot be taken until an attendant thoroughly wipes it down and ensures the customer lathers up with hand gel.

The only reason I stopped at La Comer was to buy some imported Japanese tea that I like. And, because I was there, I picked up a few other new items for experimentation.

It was not until I had almost finished wending my way down the aisles that I noticed there were arrows on the floor -- and I had been going the wrong direction on almost each of them. But I was not alone. Most of my fellow shoppers (and there were very few) were going any which way they wanted. Maybe, like me, they had not seen the arrows. Though, I doubt it would have mattered.

Checking out was a breeze. Five cashiers were open, and all of them were free. I think this is the first time I have been in La Comer and have not had to stand in a long line. Only then did it hit me. It was Saturday -- and a major store had no customers.

Plus the older people who act as baggers were not there. Even though I always tip them, I just take their presence for granted.

Then, I needed just one more stop -- Monkey's chicken. I have been discussing the virtues of Popeye's chicken sandwiches with a New York friend. He was shocked that I had never eaten one. But he did get me craving fried chicken. And, in these parts, that means Monkey's.

There were still a few tables on the periphery of the front patio, so I bought a three-piece meal. That was a prophylactic. I always order a 20-piece bag of chicken to go. But, by the time I reach the city limits of Manzanillo, I usually have eaten five pieces, and chicken grease is smeared over everything in the car -- including my clothes.

My trick worked. Having eaten three-pieces for lunch, I was not tempted to plunder my chickenarian trove. It should be enough breasts, thighs, wings, and drumsticks to satisfy Omar and me for a couple days. I just ate three pieces for breakfast.

Other than the new distancing tools at La Comer, not much would indicate that there was a shutdown order in place. When we crossed over the river to the state of Colima, a very friendly attendant used a stand-off digital thermometer to measure our temperatures. No other questions were asked.

When I crossed over the river on my return solo trip, a masked policewoman ordered me to use the hand gel and then chided me for not wearing my Woody-from-Toy-Story bandana. So, I slipped it on to avoid infecting myself. Well, I put it on just long enough for me to roll up my window and to perform a one-item Gypsy-Rose-Lee.

And did I feel Lucky when it was all over? I am not certain, I can answer that. Trying to figure out what dogs think is a Sisyphean task.

I suppose Lucky never liked being taken home. But I was happy to get back to my patio, having had a dog's day out.

Plus, I got a bag of chicken for my troubles. And I know Lucky would have like that.