I’ve been telling Mom and Dad for years that rain and storms are dangerous, but they wouldn’t believe me. They think they know better, just because I’m a dog. Whenever I felt the atmosphere begin to change (and like most dogs, I can sense that well before the first raindrop appears), I’d whine, shake and pace anxiously to warn them of the impending danger. When that didn’t work, I’d jump up on the couch next to them, or even on the table if that’s where they were sitting, in an effort to get their attention. All that got me was a sharp, “Get down!” while they pushed me off.
Even when the storms actually hit, they’d pretend everything was okay. It could be pouring rain outside, with the sky lit up with lightening and deafening booms of thunder, and Mom and Dad would basically just go about their business, ignoring it all. Even worse, they wanted ME to ignore it! “You’ll be fine, Finn,” they’d say. “It’s nothing but a little rain and thunder.” Now I know that my parents are mostly smart people, but when it comes to bad weather, they have absolutely no clue.
So I have to admit that I feel just a little bit vindicated after the past week. We had THREE bad storms in the past seven days, and all of them resulted in some rather serious flooding in our area. Unlike many others, our house escaped damage, so we were lucky. But our driveway turned into a raging river with several inches of rain pouring down it, and we even had white caps where it meets the street. Trash cans floated by and disappeared behind a neighbor’s house, and all the while the water crept closer and closer to us.
Mom says we’re lucky that our house sits up high, but even that didn’t help last night, when fifty-mile an hour winds drove the rain right against our house and the upstairs bathroom window started leaking all over the floor. Mom seemed very unhappy about that, but not nearly as unhappy as she was later, when Dad used her best towels to stuff into the window to keep more water from coming in. And today there are many streets in our neighborhood that are still closed because of the flooding damage and the trees that blew down in the high winds.
“See?” I want to tell my parents. “I was right! Storms are VERY dangerous!” I’d like to believe that when the next storm comes, they’ll be a bit more sympathetic to my fear. And then maybe they’ll join me when I take precautionary measures, like going to high ground in case of flooding. (The dining room table is ideal for that, and there’s room for all three of us on it.) I know perfectly well that being frightened out of your wits and trying to find a safe place is the only logical response to bad weather, and maybe, just maybe, Mom and Dad have figured that out now too.
But I guess only time will tell if they’ll react appropriately when the next storm hits. And the one thing that all of us agree on is that we don’t want the chance to find that out for a long, long time.
Love, Finn
If there’s one thing we dogs know, it’s that loud noises ALWAYS mean danger. And even though my parents adopted me from an animal shelter in Missouri, I’m originally from Louisiana, where flooding is common. That means I know rain can also spell big trouble, and the only sensible thing to do when the rains come is to move to higher ground. (It’s not my fault that the best “higher ground” in my house is the dining room table, but try telling Mom that. She has a hissy fit every time I try to climb up there. Luckily, she’s not always home when I feel the need to heighten.)
From the very minute that I was adopted from the animal shelter, I had a feeling I was going to really, really like living with my new family. And I was right. I’ve got my own bed, my own crate, a basket full of dog toys and a big yard to run around in. I have two doggie cousins, Frankie and Roxy, who sometimes come over to play with me. Plus, I’ve got my parents trained to be very generous with the dog biscuits…they even use them to “bribe” me to go outside for a potty break when it’s raining. All in all, I’ve been pretty darned happy with my new family and thought that things couldn’t possibly get any better. But they did!
For the past few weeks, our house has been far too quiet. No one is barking at the back door, letting me know that she has waited exactly five seconds for someone to let her in and she’s deeply unhappy about the delay. When I’m working at my computer, no one is laying by my feet, snoring loudly. I don’t hear the repetitive squeak of dog toys, or the click of canine toenails on the hardwood floors. Our house has been peaceful, quiet, and almost entirely free of dog hair…..and I don’t like it one bit.
So these days, I get my “dog fix” when I walk the shelter dogs, who are always very happy to get the attention. My son and daughter-in-law’s dogs also come visit, making themselves instantly at home at “Grandma’s” house, as they explore every nook and cranny and scope out the furniture for the best napping spots. And they don’t seem to mind too much when we make it clear that their sleeping choices are limited to the floors and the dog beds.
I have written many times about Lucy, so my regular readers know something about her history. They know that when we adopted her from the humane society, we thought we were getting a calm, easy-going dog. Which she was, until the sedative they had given her when she’d been spayed wore off. And then we realized that we had actually adopted a very energetic and almost scary-smart dog who liked her own way best. Lucy was very loving and had huge brown eyes that could melt just about any heart, and those traits served her well. Especially since she was a firm believer that most household rules were nothing more than suggestions, and tended to live life very much on her own terms.
Rest in peace, baby girl. May you spend your days in a heaven filled with all your doggie friends, slow-moving squirrels and low tables loaded with all your favorite foods. And never forget just how very much you were loved.
I know we are now living in Lucy’s twilight years, and that her time with us is drawing to an end. To my mind, the only thing truly wrong with dogs is that their life spans are far too short. We may have another year with Lucy, or we may only have another few weeks; we have reached the stage where either is possible. All that we can do is enjoy the time we have left with our loving, neurotic, and smart little Lucy. And if that means we have to sniff out our own dead mice, then so be it.
One way or another, I spend a big chunk of my life these days in the company of dogs. To begin with, I share my home with Lucy, a fourteen-year old dog who has always operated with a total disregard for household rules. And while old age means she can no longer move as quickly or hear as well as she used to, I still walked into our dining room shortly after we had finished this year’s Easter brunch to find her standing calmly on our dining room table, polishing off the rest of the dessert tray. Just for the record, she seemed to favor the little egg-shaped cakes over the lemon squares, although it was obvious that she had sampled both. She may be old, but she still knows an opportunity when she sees it.
Besides living with Lucy, I often help take care of my children’s dogs, which I’m more than happy to do. My daughter and her husband have Harley, a chihuahua mix who adores her immediate circle of friends and family and has absolutely no use for anyone else. In her own home, she’s happy to simply ignore people she doesn’t like, but walking her is a challenge. She may love her walks, but she also loves barking at anyone and anything she sees, and flies into an absolute rage when she spots an approaching car. It doesn’t seem to occur to her that five pounds of furious dog is no match for a thousand pounds of moving steel, and I’m not about to let her learn that lesson the hard way.
My son and his fiancé have Frank, a pug mix, and Roxy, an English Bulldog. I know Frank well since he lived with us for a while right after my son graduated from college, and have come to love Roxy, too. Roxy and Frank have become good friends in the past couple of years, although there have been a few necessary adjustments. Unlike most dogs, Frank loves to wear sweaters (probably because he doesn’t tolerate the cold very well), but Roxy has a problem with that. One cold December morning, my son sent the dogs outside with Frank proudly sporting a brand-new Christmas sweater. Ten minutes later, the dogs came back in. Frank was wearing only his fur, while Roxy had Frank’s Christmas sweater dangling from her teeth. Clearly, Roxy is a dog who knows how to take matters into her own paws, and Frank has learned to live without sweaters.
My mother has Penny, a sweet and elderly chihuahua who was rescued from a hoarding situation about nine years ago, which means that altogether, my immediate family has five dogs. I spend time with all of them, trimming nails and filling in as needed for potty breaks, walks and meals. For the past fourteen years, I have also been volunteering regularly at the Humane Society where I have logged in hundreds of miles walking shelter dogs. I’ve spent hours patiently coaxing a shy dog out of its run, or working to teach a rowdy dog basic manners, or trying to calm a dog who is clearly stressed out.
That could easily have been the end of my obsession with horses, but it wasn’t. The stable owner kindly stepped in, offering to find a more experienced owner for Gypsy and helping me find Tony, a good-natured Welsh pony, to help me regain my confidence. Later, I got Prince, who was as close to the horse of my dreams as any horse would ever be (you can read his story in 
Muddling Through My Middle Age 