“The picture you see here from Santa Fe is me, laying in a bed of clover,” said Scooter.

“Lying,” said Barb, his mom, head on pillow but listening.

“What?”

“You may lay your toy, Chipmunk, in a bed of clover, but you would lie in it.”

“It’s my blog, mom.”

“I’m editing,” she said. Then added, “It wasn’t clover, Scooter. It was a bed of Covid.”

“Covid?”

“The bed in the picture upon which you lay . . .”

“Lie,” he said.

“No. Now it is lay.”

“You said . . . ,”

“When you first used the word, you used the present tense, so the word ‘lie’ was required. Now you are referring to that bed, and a past tense verb is required. That’s what you did in the past. You lay in the bed. But it was a bed of Covid, not clover.

“That’s what it’s called? Covid? I could identify the scent, but I didn’t know the word for it.

“It’s a virus.”

“New word, Mom?”

“We’ll talk about it some time.”

“When you are all better,” said he. “That Covid was a power presence in that bed.”

“Scooter, you were a champ. Thanks for the cuddles, and long looks of concern. I’m noticing your whale-eye in the photo. The white of your eyes showing-a sure sign of worry and concern.

“Mom, did you know we dogs have been 97% accurate in sniffing out Covid from sweat samples? Our noses, you know . . .”

“I do know,” she said, reaching to pat him where he cuddles in the bend of her knees.

“Sorry your coat is such a mess.” Barb tries to run her fingers through his heavily matted hair. “There’s a tangle at your left ear,” she said.

“I like it this way,” he said.

“I may have the energy to brush you today,” she said. “You’re a mess.”

“I think you should rest. Just listen to that beautiful southwestern rain and thunder. Just rest.”