Pocket and the Thunderstorm

I am a delicate machine.  I have to have the same food, and the same treats at the usual time, each day.  A couple of hours after supper I have a “small plate” of kibble and turkey.  Most importantly, just before bedtime, I have to go outside and make what we call a double.  (A pee is a number one, or a single, so number two is a double.)

If I don’t have my late night double then, the next morning, I will have a rumbly tummy, not want to eat, and inevitably leave a nasty double behind a chair.

Storms are a problem.  Snow is the worst.  I won’t perform in the snow.  Daddy, who is in charge of my double production, tries to walk me around our tiny, enclosed deck, on snowy days but usually, neither one of us are satisfied with the results, and I am left with a rumbly tummy.

I am not fond of rain.  I am not as bad as River Song who is as insistent about not performing when it is wet as Van Halen is about not performing when they don’t get the right M & M’s.  But River is not delicate.  She can eat anytime, double anytime, and has no performance anxiety.

I have learned to go out in the rain and perform.  I don’t like being dried off afterward, the towel is rough and pulls on my hair, but it is also warm, and the drying is a form of petting, so it is a fine trade off.  

The worst storm is the thunderstorm.  At the first rumble, I seek out Daddy.  If he is sitting, or lying down, I begin at his lap, and with each loud crash, I move up his body, until I am perched on his head, my tiny claws trying to dig into his hard skull for balance.

On Thursday night, right at final double time, a thunderstorm rolled in.  Daddy picked me up and told me I needed to be brave and produce.  We went outside.  It was not raining hard, yet, but there were thunder overhead and lightning all around us.  I hate lightning.  I know it is unlikely since I take up only a speck of space in the universe, that I will be struck, but I worry, because Foley may have gotten a paw on a bolt, and she has often threatened to smote me.

Like all dogs are taken outside during a storm I could not perform my dogly doodie duties.  Every time I positioned myself, there was a rumble of thunder, or a crash of lightning, to interrupt the process, and resume my search for the right spot.

Daddy was getting impatient.  He took up a lot more of the universe than I did as was more at risk.  But he also knew that nothing ruined my double concentration like a raised voice.  His only option was to softly plead with me to complete my double.

Finally, there was a break between thunder and lightening, I wiggled my butt in position and popped out a double.  Daddy picked me up and quickly carried me home telling me I was brave.

We went to bed shortly after that where I assumed my position on Daddy’s head.  

I had been brave for the evening.  Now I could go to sleep comfortable in my role as the family coward.