My Quarantine Horse

“Where the hell is Alfie’s cancer medication?” my girlfriend asked, frantically searching through her bag as our car sped along the highway. We were driving on Route 80 in Pennsylvania, leafless trees and empty pastures on either side of us, en route to my parents’ cabin, where we hoped to ride out the coronavirus pandemic.

It was March 18, and the virus had started to sweep through New York City; between that and the fact that the kitchen sink in our apartment wasn’t working, we decided it was time to head for the hills. The rolling hills of northeastern Pennsylvania, to be exact, where the phrase “population density” is more often used to refer to deer than people.

Alfie is our very old and very cute cat. His fur is white on the underbelly and gray on top; sometimes, when he loses all sense of feline mystique, he lets his tongue hang stupidly out of his mouth. I think I love him most in those moments.

Alfie is also quite sick. I’d forgotten his medication in the mad rush for the door, and now we would have to race to find a vet who could re-prescribe it. Nearly 150 miles from our home in Brooklyn, it was too late to turn around. Luckily, my girlfriend was able to reach a vet in the East Village, who agreed to ship a dosage up to our new lodging. Three weeks later, I’m happy to report the cat is fine.

Alfie and his tongue.

This is fortunate, because since arriving in Pennsylvania, where I grew up, the cat, my girlfriend, and a horse I call Ron are the only other living creatures I would have any meaningful interaction with until, well, who knows when. Of course, there have been phone calls and FaceTimes (and Zooms and Hangouts and Houseparties) with friends and family. But none of it makes up for the loss of face-to-face interactions; we need physical cues and corporeal experiences to feel like we are fully alive.

And so we began to take Alfie out for walks on a leash. A city cat, it was the first time in his 16 years on earth he’d sniffed the outdoors. Thanks to the fresh air and those medications, he recovered nicely. He has no deep thoughts on coronavirus and that’s refreshing because it’s almost all anybody talks about these days, and sometimes one needs a bit of a break from reality.

I can’t say for certain whether he actually likes me, but I owe the guy a measure of gratitude.

As it stands, coronavirus has claimed over 20,000 lives across the United States. It triggered our country’s utter economic collapse, caused friends to lose their jobs, and nearly took at least one family member’s life. We’re all terrified and angry. To find some semblance of normalcy, I break up my day with walks outside — a privilege of escaping from New York that’s not lost on me.

I met Ron about a week into isolation, when my girlfriend and I were on a walk through the farmlands that neighbor the house. The day was overcast and, though it was late March, the air still carried a bleak winter chill. We saw him standing in a football field–size pen next to a modest white cottage. I was having a particularly rough day on that afternoon of our first encounter, though I can’t remember quite why. Maybe it was fear for my cousin’s life — he’d contracted Covid-19 and, as a result, double pneumonia too — or the loved ones who were sure to lose their jobs in the coming weeks. Maybe I was just sad that the world seemed to be irrevocably changing for the worse.

We stood there for some time, watching the horse stride the generous length of his confines. And he watched us, too. Probably he wondered why these two humans had such a wretched look about them. After just a minute or two, he ambled over in our direction and stood against the edge of the pen. Seeing him so close I couldn’t help but think that with his brown fur, white tuft on the crown of his head, and flowing blond mane, he sort of looked like he was in a hair metal band. I decided then to call him Ron, after Ron Thal, lead singer of Asia, the ‘80s rock band behind the hit “Heat of the Moment.” Ron (the horse, not the man) let out a soft grunt and lowered his head to us. We petted his nose and I hummed “Heat of the Moment” to myself and for a second everything was all right again.

I pay Ron a visit every few days. Sometimes we bring him apple cores or oats, sometimes I treat him to my best “Heat of the Moment” rendition. I can’t say for certain whether he actually likes me, but I owe the guy a measure of gratitude. I hope to introduce him to Alfie. I think they’ll like each other. In this moment, the things we cling to — a horse or a cat — aren’t just things; they’re our lifelines, even if they don’t really know it.

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