Nothing says SPRING quite like a gentle, nocturnal thunderstorm. That first rumble of thunder is followed by a very tense Shetland Sheep Dog (*Sheltie*) named Stormy (rather inappropriately named, I might add) trying to claw me to death in an attempt to warn me that the universe is doomed.
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No. None. She has a pattern. First a warning. Then she lets me doze off. There’s another warning right after I nod off. This is followed shortly by my pulling her up on the bed, looping an arm over her to prevent escape, and nodding off again.
She views my sleeping as a reason to escape. She jumps down, runs to the doorway to check for Godzilla, and then comes back to claw me some more. I would like to note, for the record, that not one time has Godzilla successfully attacked this little dog when I’ve had my arm around her. Just saying.
This presents a conundrum. Most of the time I sleep through the first few rumbles. She doesn’t. If I actually cared what the weather forecast portended, I’d make sure she got a yummy Benadryl snackie before we went to bed. I, however, grew up in the great state of Minnesota where the weather forecast is so useless that the on-air personalities regularly get caught in sudden showers without an umbrella or a rain coat. The legendary Halloween blizzard of 1991 was “going to wrap up in the next few hours” when I tuned in to the evening news. I got home from driving my plow about 6 days later. Yeah. And they claim they can predict global warming.
No, I prefer to see what God dishes out at His whim. Stormy is not so fond of deities taking her delicate nervous system for granted. Drugs, clearly, are the answer. She doesn’t freak out. I sleep. She doesn’t have a stuffy nose from allergies. Win-Win.
It will rain again tonight. Guess who’s getting a little pink pill wrapped up in yummy meat-flavored goop?
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