But at ground level, we know this is all nonsense.

This downturn is already following a dog-leg - the only debate being whether it is cocked or not.

A joke going around right now says that dogs think their masters have decided to work from home to spend more time with them, whereas cats figure their owner's incompetence has finally caught up with them and they've been fired.

Either way, in my house and countless dwellings across the land, the huge quotidian disruption brought about by COVID-19 has been viewed as overwhelmingly positive according to one cohort in particular: canines.

Vincent, my four-year old Schnauzer extraordinaire, has not only welcomed the "crisis" with a near sociopathic callousness, but the little fella has embraced our "new normal" with the evangelical zeal of an ex-smoker.

To his way of thinking, there simply is no downside.

Once rare, snacks are now frequent and walks are not only assured but their proper length is guaranteed also.

There's none of this "we're-going-straight-home-after-you've-done-your-business-because-I-have-to-go-to-work" malarkey.

We know where that led.

For dogs, these were barren, neglectful days, some brutally hot, others fearsomely cold. Nobody speaks of them.

I suspect a subtle but crucial power shift is occurring widely, in these strange, unsettling months.

He's an amenable little chap generally, but you'd have to get up pretty damn early in the morning to diddle Vincent out of his full morning constitutional.

Which, by the way, is one of his stipulations - early rising, up 'n at 'em.

In fact he's cultivated a kind of Pentecostal-youth-camp vibe in recent weeks, so utterly jolly yet non-negotiable are his food and activity requirements.

While each day begins with the gobsmacking ecstasy of simply being alive (an appreciation of good fortune we can't summon even in a pandemic) morning walks are increasingly controlled at the lower end of the leash.

Indeed, so conversant has Vincent become with the local topography - streets, connecting walkways, reserves and so on - that any surreptitious attempt to bend homeward before a solid 30 minutes of outward trudging is met with dignified resistance - usually a seated position.

He's onto me, I muse wearily. "OK, we'll take the long way. Again."

Thank Christ for Radio National!

Finally home, a keenly anticipated breakfast is dispatched with the delicate reserve of a prison escapee.

Walk. Ablutions. Food. Check.

Now, I can work right?

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Well yes, once Vincent has settled in his specially arranged (COVID-era) cushion on the chair next to mine at "our" dining table-cum-work desk.

This position, he figures, maximises incidental affection/consultation and any windfall gains that might flow from my own (more frequent) snacking.

But let's be clear. He disapproves of Zoom meetings in principle, and has been known to call time by adopting an impossible-to-misinterpret central lap position - a gesture not lost on any involved.

For the most part though, he lets me get on with it, and in truth, I'm actually at my desk earlier for all of this palaver.

Thinking about it, there are few things I do now in either work or non-work mode (a boundary that has become meaningless anyway) that are not done just as well with the valued counsel of my furry companion.

And frankly, it's the way I like it.

Canine psychologists warn us that dogs will experience serious anxiety when their best friends are mobilised back to the workplace.

But what about our mental health in the supposedly more rational "old normal"?

Can I blithely consign Vincent to the frigid emotional tundra of the pre-COVID economy as if none of this happened?

Besides, a dog-free office... how will I get anything done?