YES! Praise be to all that is good and holy! The first thunderstorm of spring! I am ecstatic. The one and only thing that mars what would otherwise be a sublime moment of experiential perfection is my brain-damaged dog. Hereinafter to be known as…well, Brain-Damaged Dog, or BD Dog.
According to the husband and the daughter, BD Dog is not REALLY brain-damaged, and how dare I even suggest such a thing? They really become quite indignant when I tell others that I suspect BD Dog is not quite up to canine intellectual par. However, I have every reason to believe he is, in fact, running on short circuits. You see, when he was a puppy, he had an annoying puppy habit of chewing on everything in the blasted house. In fact, he chewed the blasted house. He snacked on windowsills and baseboards and even chewed away most of an entire lower corner of a solid wood door. He made a kitty-door before we even knew we wanted one. At that time - due to some brain malfunction of my own, evidenced by my begging that we buy an old house so we could “fix-it-up” - we were living in a beautiful but structurally decrepit Victorian style farmhouse, circa 1920. Now, I believe anyone with even a smidgen of sense would agree with me that there is a STRONG chance BD Dog’s maniacal chomping on and through a house while he was a growing, developing puppy might have, just maybe, affected his little brain. Especially since said house had, of course, been slathered in LEAD BASED PAINT - hellooo! Anyhoo, I’m blathering again. So, how does BD Dog ruin the exquisite perfection of a thunderstorm, you ask? Or don't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway.
He’s terrified of them. He whines, he slathers and drools and pants like a demon and wants to seek cover under ME. Since he can’t get under me, he tries to do the next best thing, which to him, means climb up me, whether I’m standing, sitting, or lying down. If he were still his cute little puppy size, I might be able to deal – but he’s about 90 lbs now, which in my book disqualifies him from ever perching on any part of me. Besides that, did I mention he DROOLS? Not all the time, mind you, only during thunderstorms. It is not pleasant. He will not go in a closet to hide. He will not, God forbid, go outside. He’s not happy under a table. He won’t be happy till the weather’s stable. Eeew. Yuck. Think I’ll leave that stuff to Dr. Seuss. I promise that will never happen again on this site.
I feel sorry for BD Dog. I take pity on him, and try to not be angry with him for dripping and drooling and generally making a disgusting mess all over me, the floor, the sofa, the bed, or wherever I happen to be. And, for some reason, he only wants ME during storms. The husband won’t do. The daughter won’t do. I am the one who gets the full, undivided attention of the wet, whiney, slobbery, panting hulk of a dog who is, at other times, the sweetest of sweet, loyal, well-behaved doggie companions. I suppose I feel some sense of obligation to respond in kind with loyalty to him during his psychotic breaks. For example, despite wanting desperately to do so, I do not throw his ass into the basement to battle his terror alone. I do not glare at him and raise my voice, forcing him to “down, stay, stupid dog!!” while I go into another part of the house, though really and truly that’s all I want to do.
So, it’s the first thunderstorm. Rain falling outside. Slobber raining inside. But, nevertheless, I’m still ecstatic. Because, hallelujah! It is well and truly and finally SPRING!