It’s almost two in the A.M, and I woke to an anxious pup. Angry thunder crashed about 0130, with bursts of lightning flashing behind my still new blinds. Chunk whined. I ignored him and tried to roll over and go back to sleep.
I love my dog, and it’s uncharacteristic of him to whine during thunderstorms. Unlike other pups, Chunk doesn’t freak out in bad weather. He kept whining. I got up and let him out of his home.
Rain beat out a heavy, insistent drum rhythm against my tin roof. It grew heavier. “There must be a tornado in the area,” I muttered. Chunk had darted into the living room once I released him, but now he was at the foot of my bed.
“Get up here,” I snapped. He leapt on the bed and came close to my chest. “Lay down, Chunk. It’s okay,” I said, as I tried to reason with his irritability.
He jumped off and raced into the living room. I sighed, as I listened to the rain persistently slow down, its ferocity calmed by the gentle nail-scarred hands of God Almighty.
I got dressed and padded into the living room. After making a cup of coffee, I looked around for Chunk. He stood vigilant by the door. I let him out. Thunder boomed, and moments later, Chunk wanted back in.
So, here I am in my recliner, cup of coffee in hand, listening to the storm- at two in the morning. Chunk is over on the couch licking his paws and staring at me like I’m the lunatic who insisted on being let out.
Ah well, I’m sure it’s for the best.
Y’all be safe out there.