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We are members of one great body. Nature planted in us a mutual love, and fitted us for a social life. We must consider that we were born for the good of the whole.
Lucius Annaeus Seneca
One of my favorite things about summertime is the storms. The outrageous, amazing, beautiful, loud, house-shaking, booming, scary movie, better wrap yourself in a blanket and have some hot chocolate and snuggle with your honey thunderstorms that hit the South are this wondrous creation that you have to experience to believe. I’ve mentioned my love of the storms while I was growing up in Illinois. There are few things I like better than a good thunderstorm. I like to sit in my car and watch it through the sunroof. Or through the windows of my house. Or if I’m at a house with a screened in porch, that is the bees knees, right there. If a slight breeze is to be had to give me goose pimples, oh goodness, that is about the best to be had.
It’s about my idealized version of heaven.
I do love a good storm.
Not everyone shares my feelings of a storm. No, not everyone.
Not even everyone in my house. The humans are fine with it. Generally, they think of it as a burden to their baseball schedules. Well, with the exception of this human who clearly finds it a delightful slice of life. The turtle and the cat seem to be a-ok oblivious to the storm and think of it as another sound effect to a life of monotony. And 3 out of 4 dogs like to snuggle under the blanket and beg for the hot chocolate.
But that 1 dog…she is an unhappy little noodlehead when it comes to thunderstorms. She’s a much better predictor than the weatherman, bless his heart. I can tell a storm is coming about 45 minutes early. Her ears will perk and the whining starts. She can be in her kennel or in the house.
When she’s out of her kennel, immediately she jumps on the couch and her head goes into my lap. She begs for ear rubbing and looks at me like we are going to die. Right now. She’s serious. Rub her ears because we are going to bite it.
T-minus 20 minutes to storm. Her butt starts to wiggle and she tries to put all 35 pounds of her directly onto my lap.
T-minus 10 minutes to storm. I hear a wailing like that of a banshee who has been caught by a death eater who has just been told this is his last snack and he must om nom nom before lethal injection.
T-minus 3 minutes and counting. She paces the floor like an expectant father while continuing to wail and look at me like I’m a jerk who won’t stop the weather. This includes me looking at her like her voicebox is optional in dogs.
Storm-time. She is back in my lap, shaking like a leaf while I croon to her and whisper all kinds of human soothing noises that dogs don’t understand because, according to my son, “Dogs don’t speak English.” After about 5 minutes, Molly is fine again because, “Oh, hey, it’s just a storm.”
The three tiny dogs are looking at her like, “The big dumb dog just got it, let’s go fight over our chewy!” and the world is again at peace in the house.
For Christmas, the year I turned 11, I got the surprise of my life. I’d been waiting for a dog for years. I hadn’t had one since I was little and living on the farm.
The last gift I opened said “This certificate redeemable for one puppy of your choice!”
Oh, the excitement and joy! I knew exactly what I wanted: a blonde cocker spaniel. My mother, who tends to hate animals, stipulated “this is an outdoor animal” while I cajoled and begged and pleaded.
On New Year’s Eve, we finally found him. The most beautiful blonde cocker spaniel puppy there ever was. He hid from everything and because of his introversion, I called him my little “Shadow.” Later, I realized that it was a name mostly reserved for black animals, but I was 11. Cut me some slack.
In a rule that I still think was completely moronic, I was required to spend an hour a day with Shadow. I didn’t mind the hour, but there were days it was freezing outside and this was not an easy task. When it was at the freezing point or raining, I could bring him into a shed we had in the back yard or into the garage. I remember holding him in my lap and stroking his long, soft ears for so many of those hours and, though he was an incredibly hyper dog, he let me.
My time got shorter as I got older and became more involved with school and work. I took my first real job at 15 and I had to “make up” the time on the weekends, when I could. This led to some days where I would attempt to entertain Shadow for four hours at a stretch and he grew weary of me.
As he grew older, the gate in our backyard did, as well, and he grew more mischievous. He began to break free of his jail more and more frequently and somehow, no one had enough time to fix the gate. I spent hours searching for him and thankfully, because he had a collar, we always managed to find him.
Until early one morning over the summer of my 18th year.
The phone rang and woke me out of a sound sleep. It was my grandmother and asked me if my dog was missing. I had no idea and looked out the backyard where I could see the gate standing wide open. We’d had a storm the night before and I had no idea how long it had been open. I swallowed the lump in my throat and said that yes, I thought he might be.
Her voice quivered and said that her neighbor had called and said a dog had been hit in front of her house. It had been grazed by a car and was still breathing, but it wasn’t going to make it. It wasn’t bleeding, but the collar had my name on it. Was it mine?
I couldn’t speak.
My grandmother said that animal control had been called to come get the dog and not to bother coming to see him. He wasn’t going to make it.
I still regret not coming to see him. I was such a coward. He lay there alone.
30 minutes later, I heard a knock on the door. A tall man stood there and gently removed his ball cap. His eyes filled with tears and he said, “I got your dog in my truck. He got hit by a car. He didn’t make it.”
I nodded mutely and stared at the words forming at his mouth.
“He ain’t bleeding or nothin’. He looks fine. You can see him if you want to.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks and I shook my head head softly from side to side.
“I’ll take good care of him, miss. They don’t always take good care of these dogs, you know, but I knew he was special, this one. You took real good care of him and groomed him and everything, didn’t ya? I’ll take care of him, myself. I’ll make sure he’s ok, miss.”
I tried to smile and croaked out a thank you as the tears continued to roll from my eyes. He nodded slightly and backed down the concrete steps. He took one last look to the back of his truck, where I knew my dog lay.
I couldn’t close the door until the truck was out of sight.
All dogs go to heaven. I can’t believe in a heaven that doesn’t have them. They are the most pure hearts besides children and if there is an all-encompassing creator, surely He loves the pure hearts. If He doesn’t, then what kind of heaven would it be? I don’t want to be anywhere that doesn’t have my dogs.
I rarely ask for things on here (though if you are on twitter, I ask for presents all the darn time). Last night, in the middle of hormonal mood swings, wailing, gnashing of teeth, throwing things, hugging people, eating chocolate and watching late night television, I saw an ASPCA commercial. If you’ve not seen one, don’t.
Really, don’t.
I got emotional and upset and hugged my dogs even closer. The truth of the matter is that animals get the short end of the stick quite often. I have three of the most amazing creatures I have ever met and one smart aleck cat who hates me. Animals are important to me and always have been. If you’ve been reading, you saw what happened when I got attached to the chickens. This has been true for every animal I’ve ever had. Except for Francis. Anyway, I know that there are important diseases and people give money to charity all the time. They don’t want to be harassed into parting with their money for something like animal care and prevention of animal cruelty. I can’t explain to you why this is more important than health care or scientific research, except to say that when I’m sad or hurt, my animals help me more than any human I’ve ever met. They soothe me like nothing else. They understand, listen and hug in a way that I need without judgment. Sometimes, the things that seem unimportant in life are the things that get you through when you need it the most.
With that in mind, I’d like to organize a small donation in the amount of $250 for the ASPCA. This is on my heart and if you can give even $1 per person, I’d make this in no time. If you can give more, you help for those that can’t right now. I’m not giving up until I meet my goal, so the sooner I meet it, the less you have to hear about it. Also, if you have an animal that is important to you, I’d like to hear about him or her.
EDIT: I called the ASPCA, as donations were not showing on the widget, and apparently donations do not show up for TEN days. If you email me the amount donated, I will keep a running tally without divulging your name on the post. Sorry about that.
Life is like a game. We all have challenges, thoughts, opinions and beliefs. Often, it feels like something out there, life, karma, catty people, or blue shells (for the Kart lovers), seeks to bring us down. Luckily, we always get up. This is where I wear my heart on my sleeve and my foot in my mouth.
Home
Oh dear. Oh my. Oh good golly. 
T-minus 10 minutes to storm. I hear a wailing like that of a banshee who has been caught by a death eater who has just been told this is his last snack and he must om nom nom before lethal injection. 
Life is like a game. We all have challenges, thoughts, opinions and beliefs. Often, it feels like something out there, life, karma, catty people, or blue shells (for the Kart lovers), seeks to bring us down. Luckily, we always get up. This is where I wear my heart on my sleeve and my foot in my mouth.
