Good Golly, Miss Molly

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . June 27, 2010 . 11:41PM

Oh dear. Oh my. Oh good golly.

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.