Suddenly, it’s thunderstorm season. After a dry early spring, daily showers soak the yard, and everything is turning green again. However, our small white dog Winston takes umbrage at the loud rumbles echoing across the sky. With a endless barrage of barks, he waits at the back door, ready to take on the storm.
“Hey, it’s pouring rain. You don’t want to go out there.”
Yes he does. He doesn’t give up. Finally I give in. “Alright. Go get ’em!”
I open the door and he sprints out into the pouring rain. In less than a minute, he’s soaking wet, running along the fence, giving the storm a stern barking lecture about getting too close to our yard.
I didn’t realize it was raining so hard. “Hey, get back in here.” He didn’t even glance back at me, determined to get to the source of that thunder. I whistled. No response. I closed the door. He’ll let me know when he’s ready to come back inside.
Ten minutes of torrential rains later, I heard a yip at the back door. Finally. I grabbed a towel and caught his collar as he scooted inside. I dried him off as much as I could. I released him to roll around on the carpet for a bit.
The next thunder came right on the heels of a big flash of lightning. It was very close. Winston returned to yapping at the back door. “No way. You’re not going out there. Cool it.”
Ten minutes later, the storm had moved on, just distant flashes of lightning over the ocean. It was quiet. Winston was fast asleep on his side. He had given that storm what for. Another job well done.
Waite for it... 