It’s 0500 and my Sunday morning has already been exciting.
0300 – I was sleeping like a baby when thunder, lightning, and pouring down rain startled me from my slumber. The Rat Dog trembled and came to snuggle close. She knows I’m the life saver of the family. I cuddle her and try to go back to sleep, but the window’s open and I know water’s probably coming in. I get up and close the window then try to go back to sleep. No luck. I decide, after laying in bed for 45 minutes, to get up.
Mind you, the White Dog and the Short Dog are both TERRIFIED of thunder, lightning, and gusher rainstorms such as this.
I find the White Dog trembling in her bunker, i.e. the bathtub. I wash up and head to the kitchen in typical fashion, minus the usual dancing dogs beside me. The Rat Dog is ready for chow, but the other two are nowhere to be seen.
I have no concern because when the kernels of food hit their bowls, they always come running. Since she’s there, I dump the Rat Dog’s food into her bowl first. As with Pavlov’s Law, a White Dog comes running. I continue to scoop and dole out breakfast dumping her food next. With the rattle of a larger scoop of food hitting the bowl, I’m certain the Short Dog will now make her appearance. No such luck. “Has she forgotten the Law of Pavlov? Hmm?”
I scoop the last serving and dump it into the Short Dog’s bowl. Still nothing. Now I’m concerned. Afterall, the Short Dog’s other nickname’s are Chow Hound, Iron Gut, Scrap, and Beggar. She lives for food and rarely allows a morsel fall to the floor. Yep. She has great mouth-eye coordination.
As the Rat Dog and the White Dog chomp their food I begin to scour the house, being as silent as possible because H is still snoozing.
I look in her usual hiding places. Nothing. I look in her normal sleeping spot, which I know she’s not in because it’s far too open to be considered a bunker during such a thunder storm. Nothing. I continue my journey from room to room, using my phone’s flashlight to check the darkest of spots. Nothing.
Now my concern has grown. “Did we leave her out last night?” I begin picturing a sopping wet, soaked, sad, cold, or worse yet stolen shorty! I look in smaller, more confined spaces. Nothing. “What the heck?” I begin, in a whisper, calling her. Nothing. I call louder. Still nothing. “Was she in her bed when I went to bed?” Now I had to stop being polite and wake H.
“H! The Short Dog’s not here,” I whispered, “H! I can’t find the Short Dog,” I said more loudly.
As he roused, I continued my search, calling for the Short Dog ever more aggressively. All my beckoning resonated in no response.
H finally groaned as he heard the Short Dog rustling and squeezing out from behind a cabinet and table. Then he grumbled, “Why are you waking me up at four in the morning? UGH.”
Finally, the Short Dog made her appearance beside her food bowl. She looked up as if to say, “What’s the matter?”
I brew my coffee, the Short Dog inhales her meal, give the trio a chew treat, then I shuffle my way to the couch. I hear the thunk of the White Dog hopping back into her bunker, i.e. the bathtub. The Rat Dog cuddles beside me and the Short Dog decides to join us. Yes. They both know I’m the life saver of the family.
As I settle in and sip my first taste of this morning’s java, the thunder, lightning, and rain roll over the hills toward the east. I hear a lost horse whinny out front. He’s looking for his friends, they must be in a good spot like the Short Dog. I take another sip and wonder what other adventures will be in store out on the muddy farm this morning. “I’m sure the old horse will wait until sunup to come out from his hiding spot at feed time.”
Other thoughts run through my mind, “I guess I can’t mow the yard in front of the little house again today; The tractor might sink or make large ruts. Boy! The fields are loving this rain. I bet the irrigation is blown out. Mud. Chores!”
Another sip of coffee, “Ah. Country life.”
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