This morning I wrote the nicest blog on journaling and how petty my discomfort was in the face of what we all must do. After I wrote it, I went into the kitchen to reheat my coffee and I discovered my worst horror come to life.

“Her Dog” — the nine year old schnauzer we inherited from my wife’s newly deceased cousin, the dog that never had to mind one order in nine years, the dog that had roast beef for dinner every night (or whatever food her owner had cooked), the dog that would have been a smart dog if it had ever been taught how to think (but hadn’t), the dog that my wife watches over so closely that I refer to it as Her Dog — Her Dog had broken into my final cigar stash, the one that needed to last at least the week during “Lock Down”, and had destroyed it.

Before I discovered this catastrophe, I wrote that I could bear through this time; I was only worried about the cigar lounge’s owner’s ability to stay in business.

But as I picked up my cigars, pierced by Her Dog’s fangs, and as I closely examined each cigar (looking for any chance they had survived the vicious onslaught) and as I gently placed then in the refrigerator to moisten, I had a pop of panic.

Then I thought what a hypocrite I must be.

Then I had another burst of panic.

Then I briefly schemed how I’d kill that dog (just kidding! my wife is working at home and is keeping too close an eye on Her Dog — and obviously I’m just kidding about that, too. Really. Just kidding!)

Anyway, sometime in there I also thought about how funny it was that I’d just written the previous blog about how we’ll all get through this.

Then I thought about that d&%n dog again.