Rain, Rain, Go AWAY

the 1937 flood

And leave my poor sweet Very Old Dog alone.



Giacomino didn't start minding thunder and lightning until he was twelve or so. Never gave it a whisker's notice. Now, he breaks my heart. For nearly fourteen years he has been brave, silly, noble, adoring, and treasured. He feared nothing.



On a good day you can hear his heart with your bare ear, thunkin' away with its leaky valve. He doesn't have a murmur, he has a shout out. I asked about a chest xray to see how enlarged his sweet heart actually is at his last visit, and Doc said, "Well whatcha want to do that for? He feel all right? Is he eating and happy and doin' good? He looks fantastic! Whatcha want to do that for?" I love my vet.



It started thundering at 7:30 yesterday morning. I was at a Chamber of Commerce meeting. (Only to support a good friend would I go to a 7:30 AM meeting.) I heard that thunder and my heart squeezed for my Very Old Dog. Bill was right there with him in the kitchen, having his coffee and saying, "It's OK, Giacomino." We could hear the rain on the roof of the Convention Center, and boom, boom, boom.



It stormed all day. The thunder came and went. But the rain kept on coming at us like crazy wild contestants hurrying down the isles on the Price is Right. Giacomino is never more than three feet away from me, hasn't been in his whole life. Not in a neurotic, separation anxiety sort of way, but in an "it's all right, I'll keep you great good company" kind of way. Yesterday he stayed closer than normal, and when the thunder would wake him, he'd raise worried eyes to my face. And he'd stand - not an easy, take it for granted task these days. And he'd pant.



I rub the bells of his ears to lessen the sound of the thunder. Sometimes that is all it takes to make it better for him. But I couldn't mask the terrific crashes of yesterday's storm.



The lightning eased up around dinner time. This was a kindness, because we were invited to our neighbors' for supper. The food was savory and the conversation just delightful, and as we were saying our thank you, the sky exploded. Even Bill said, "We've got to get back to poor Giacomino." It was only a two block drive, and we hurried.



He was beside himself. I tried going to bed as if it were a normal night, and gods weren't blowing each other up right over our heads. By midnight I took him downstairs. It's not quite as bad for him downstairs. This old house has huge windows, so there was no hiding from the lightning. There was no distracting him from earth shaking blasts coming relentlessly. The sump pump harmonized with the wind. I lay on my back on the couch, with Giacomino lying on my chest. No part of him touched the couch. But his heart was beating so hard that the couch reverberated. The cushions shook.



I talked to him, I sang to him, I read to him. I stroked his forehead and rubbed his ears. The newspaper got delivered at 2:30 AM. At first I thought it was a drunk driver, weaving from side to side up the street. Then I heard the thunk of the paper hitting the porch. Giacomino went out and peed in the rain.



At 4:45 AM the wind died down and the rain simply fell out of the sky instead of shooting itself at us. And the thunder stopped. Oh finally that damned thunder stopped. I carried my exhausted old dog up to our bed, managing not to wake Bill. Swede William, who hadn't exercised that particular precaution, and had joined Very Old Dog and me shortly after we went downstairs, went back in his crate and flopped down. We slept until 8:30.





It rained all day today, too, but there was no thunder. I don't know how my brave dog's heart didn't disintegrate right along with his last nerve and mine last night. We had a blissfully quiet day, and he is sound asleep in our bed as I type this on my laptop.



Please, weather gods, leave this dear old dog alone.

Hug your brave hounds

It's Raining, It's Pouring

When it decides to rain around these parts, it can solid rain. The storms here are violent and don't fit the pattern we all knew back in Maryland. The first time we had thunder and lightening in January, the two oldest dogs, now both gone, cried "No fair!" Gracious and Caruso had each independently become severely thunderphobic in their dotage. I don't know who detested distant rumbling more: oh how it tore my heart to see my darling, dignified seniors shaking violently, tongues curled in panic panting, eyes wild with terror. It was so bad that I got drugs for them from the vet, after trying the diffusers with mom's pheromones, and the herbal stuff which had no effect on anything but my purse. Even the drugs from the vet were a wash. So great was their fright, that the dose had to be enough to render them wobbly and incoherent, which brought on its own set of fears.

Now Very Old Dog, who will be fourteen next month has become a thunder hater. Thank goodness, Maria, just turned thirteen, does not mind the boomers in the least. The dogs - all nine - and I took Bill to Paducah's little airport yesterday. The storm warnings were dire, but his flight was on. Barkley International (that cracks me up) Airport has two or three commercial flights in and out per day. The sky above our farm in Maryland was always host to multiple planes, their trailing stripes criss crossing in some nonsensical Tic Tac Toe of the gods. Here, a plane in the sky is something to make everyone, even the dogs, pause and notice.

We dropped Bill off, and then went on to the Kennel Club for Tuesday practice. I had to move some equipment and tidy a bit in preparation, and as I was outside shaking a throw rug, I saw Bill's plane fly over. I jumped up and down and waved like a wife at a returning World War II sailor. Only instead of waving a hanky, I was waving a big hairy throw rug with dirt and dog hair forming a cloud around me. "Bye Bill! Here I am, honey! Here! Here!" Jump, jump. Silly, but there you go.

As soon as the first person and dog arrived for practice, the skies opened. The Kennel Club building has a metal roof, and there are overhangs on each side under which you can park. The rain crashed down, and the noise obliterated all other sounds. I ran out to check on Very Old Dog in the van. He was mildly concerned, but not the least frantic. I gave them each two biscuits and brought Swede William in to practice.

It poured the entire two hours, making our informal conformation and obedience practice pretty much an individual thing between folks and their dogs. If we tried to help each other or compliment something, it went like this:

"Wow, she looks great tonight!"

"Are you talking to me?"

"Pardon?"

"I didn't hear you?"

"Oh, she looks really good!"

"What crook's in the 'hood?"

"No, I said she is doing great!"

"Well, of course she's chewing bate, I just gave it to her!"

"Never mind."

So we mostly communicated with smiles and nods and thumbs up.

If you want to see nine disgusted dogs, come witness mine after a trip to the Kennel Club which did not involve running in the fenced area. Add to that being dragged out of their warm, dry van in a torrential downpour and being pushed through the gate into our little yard, and you've seen the worst. Oh they were not happy campers. They do love the attacks of the sillies that come with being inside and wet, though, and soon we were all a chaotic crash of towels and toys and woo-wooing. Maria squeaking the purple monkey at a maddening rate of six squeaks per second, Sammy was shaking the life out of the platypus sending her egg babies flying, and Looch was pouncing from one flying egg to the next. Swede William was overwrought and thought he could hump Lindy Loo who was trying to run laps around the kitchen island, but not getting very far with her Swede William anchor. Delia felt the need to chastise Swede William for such an inappropriate display, and stalked him with her head, tail, ears and dander up. Looking at me to say, "Fix this, or I will! Stop the little pervert!" Fat Charlie was hip checking me for more toweling, Mama Pajama was emptying the entire water bowl while I was distracted. And now Very Old Dog was having a tug of war with Maria over the purple monkey. Dear merciful heavens! Two necks with bulging discs tugging and shaking and oh Lord don't do that, sweet hearts!

The thunder didn't start until one in the morning. I awoke to a distant rumble and thanked all that is good for Very Old Dog's very diminished hearing. He hadn't noticed. The next lightening was bright and long and his head popped up. I started the thunder routine. The lightning flashes, I start gently rubbing Very Old Dog's ears to blot out the sound of the thunder. It works really well, as long as I don't miss a flash. I ended up sleeping sideways across the bed, so that my hand was already on his neck. Fat Charlie was in Bill's spot in his absence, and spread out onto my pillow as well. By three the thunder had stopped, though the rain hadn't noticed, and we slept soundly the rest of the night.

It is still raining, so in lieu of walks, we're having individual play, or training play, or rubs and cuddles. As long as the thunder stays away, and leaves my Very Old Dog be, this rainy storm is feeling cozy. The daffodils are in full bloom, and that helps.

Hug your hounds

[Oh and do read the next entry down and enter the drawing for the give away!]

It's raining.

The dogs will not go outside to pee or worse in the rain.

They will stand there for hours, as I block their way back into the house, shouting, "Go pee. You are not coming back into this house until you pee." I cannot get them to understand that if they had gone ahead and done their business, they would be out of the rain by now. They stand in the storm and look sad. "Go pee! No one gets in until they pee."

But of course I let them in. Sodden, but full of bladder or worse. I, too, am soaked by now. I waste a little time. Putter on the computer. Think about the Meaning of Life. (Rain can have that effect on a person.) Towel off the old dogs. Watch the rain in the streetlight outside my window.

"Out, dogs! Right now, time for bed, let's go!" The downpour had momentarily lessened to a drizzle.

With decidedly less than their usual enthusiasm, the dogs slink down the stairs behind me, anticipating another drenching. There is no jostling jockeying to be first out. Noses tentatively poke around the doorway to see if it's worth proceeding. One by one they tippy-toe onto the the breezeway, and then, with me poking the reticent butts, they descend the three steps into the potty yard.

BLAM! Here comes the rain again. But I am at the top of the steps standing guard, and bladder-emptying has begun. It's pouring harder than ever. They have all peed.

They slink by me, casting glances of "How could you? We trust you, and you have made us wet. We are disappointed in you."

But, they're dogs. So the instant they are out of the rain and in the house the celebration begins. "Woo-hooooo! We are out of the horrid wetness! We are wet and silly!" As I attempt to dry them off with the big, soft, oversized towels kept handy for just such an occasion, the young 'uns start the Wet Whippet Zoomies. The Old Dogs bark at them. It sounds to my dog-language-challenged ears as though they are encouraging, rather than chastising the folly.

And then, the sweet smelling, rain water soft, whole happy herd ascends the stairs. They get their biscuits, snuggle into their blankets and dream of sunshine and dry, golden fields where they run and run and run.