I love a thunderstorm almost as much as I love the ocean. The rain started about a mile from my exit and once again I was reminded of my need for windshield wipers but like my memory the initial smear soon faded with the pelting of larger raindrops. Plus it was still daylight and I knew exactly where I was so the brain nicely compensated for any missing pieces of the picture outside the windshield. I was going home and did not want to stop for anything. I remember thinking how grateful I was to have food at home. And then there I was, at home.
Home is a beautiful ritual of putting the key in the lock and knowing she hears it. Billy Sue has been on her smiley face pillow all day napping and by the time I get the door open she is walking toward me as if her bones would break from the slightest twitch. I put my camera bag and purse on the kitchen counter and we meet in the middle. The back scratching that then ensues, I figure, is her favorite part and once that's done we're outside for relief of any built up pressures.
She does not like the rain. In fact, in Billy Sue's thoughts of heaven there will not even be a morning dew on the ground 'cause her paws could get wet. A bulldog that tiptoes instead of skateboarding, imagine that. So this is when I sit and watch the show as she paces, nudges up close to me, looks at me, I say ya' gotta get out there, it ain't gonna hurt ya' and she begins the pacing again until she finally steps out into the wet.
Once she's back on dry we sit and watch and listen and I let all the thoughts of the day play in my head until finally they fade and all that's left is me, my dog and a hard rain.