As anyone owned by a working dog knows, they need jobs. Some herd sheep. Some herd tennis balls. And some herd hapless writers through a pandemic. Already an accomplished writer-wrangler and therapist before Covid, Peri came into her own as pandemic therapist extraordinaire (with paws). This is her story. ▼(´ᴥ`)▼ Barb narrowed her eyes at unmasked pedestrians crossing in front of our car. “They aren’t even pretending to put their facemasks over their noses. They’re breathing at me.” We were in the middle of Italy, in the middle of a pandemic. Barb had been in lockdown with the Hub for over a year and frankly, she needed help. But so did everyone else in the world. It was Catch-22. She couldn’t get emergency therapy because it was sane to expect everyone else to be insane. So pointing and yelling, “Serial killer!” out the car window at those without facemasks during a pandemic was...well, sane. Luckily, there was a therapist right under her nose, one Barb could always count on. The only one who adored her with a single-minded ferocity eclipsing all else (with the possible exception of anyone holding a dog bowl at food o’clock). Barb turned to the back of the car. “Peri!” I’d been in training for this my whole life, and I absolutely nailed the pandemic therapist (with paws) role. We shared the couch, pre-dawn walks, self-inflicted haircuts, hospital-avoiding wound treatment via Doctors Google and YouTube, and a pandemic. And it worked. Barb didn’t assault serial killer/anti-maskers, and I didn’t eat out of the trash can. Mostly.