Wednesday, May 23, 2018 —> +11˚ C / +52˚ F Cloudy & Very Wet Outside in Atlantic Canada @ 4:10 pm —
— Okay, so the Dodgers are on a winning streak. I’m dealing with a stubborn rash. On the British television programme, “Escape to the Country” a Real Estate Agent is showing a fantastic canal houseboat to couple who have had more than enough of life in Big City Cambridge – and I really can’t wait to learn how expensive this used houseboat is.
— There’s the sound something like a huge truck barreling down the road and then what sounds like an evil super-villain flying around our house while casting an evil spell – then I hear the rain pelting the house from one side – then another – then another –
— And Before I can get up to go see what is happening, the power goes out. the house goes dark at about ten minutes to two in the afternoon and all the UPS-es on this floor start beeping their weird counterpoint –
— Jassper follows me to the door where I’m gazing at zooming curtains of solid water flying from different directions and whines.
— “You’re kidding – right? You wanna go out – NOW?”
— He whines again. So I let him out. No super gust of wind picks him up and carries him up and over the trees and out of sight. He looks a bit shaky, but he makes it down the four steps and looks around, tries to find a relatively protected spot to do his thing –
— I walk to the other side of the house and gaze out through the glassed in porch in time to see a lawn swing flip over backward and sail to the stone wall. The tarp over the woodshed billows like a main sail on a Man of War – but the shed does not take to the sky and sail away. Its ‘sails’ are strong and impressively secured. But I’m a little bit worried about the dog.
— So I hurry back through the house to the dog’s door, and can’t see him anywhere. I hop to the couch and strain my neck to peer through the picture window at a severe angle, and there he is – not huddling against the insane winds, but relaxed, sitting there with a big grin on his face and his nose pointed into the wind- his ears are blowing back like a cheezy commercial for some sexy dog grooming product. He sees me and pretends to feel guilty for running outside and playing in the wind and rain. I laugh. He grins at me, then struggles to stand up and plods gingerly toward the stairs. – He takes a moment or two to test the winds before attempting to climb those stairs and does his best to make it look like a heroic feat to climb all the way up and hurry through the door, only bringing in fifty gallons or so of rainwater.
— Then he slips on the floor and goes down with a thud. He tries to look pitiful, hoping that might earn him an extra treat or maybe even two – When I wince at the puddle forming around him and visualize his favourite old towel he perks up, looks hopeful and tries not to wag his tail, but it’s too late. He knows I know he can see the images in my mind and I go get the towel and he’s in doggy heaven. After three or four minutes and one thoroughly drenched towel, he suddenly remembers his earlier hopes and turns his head to gaze toward the refrigerator.
— I wonder if he can see through the door to the half eaten chicken on the top shelf – but I break out the day old bread and the peanut butter and give him half a sandwich. When he moves to the other room to plunk down and plot with the storm gods for the next similar adventure I get a look at the puddle he left behind. It takes about eight paper towels to soak and wipe that up.
— When the television comes back on an hour and a half later the news channel is telling the world that a judge somewhere has ordered an unemployed man to move the heck out of his parents’ house.
— I remember one of my favourite cousins who was pretty much incapacitated by PTSD – After a series of tragedies and his father’s death, his mother listened to too many psycho-babbling afternoon talk show psychologists and went the the ‘tough love’ route – told him to get the heck out of her house.
— He killed himself.
— So I turn the television to a different station and go plop on the bed staring at the ceiling – The still damp dog clipped into the bedroom and plopped on the floor and gazed at me with pure love, appreciation, and hope in his daffy – still damp – goofy new hair-do face.
— It hurts, but with a little bit of dog-help, I might get through this.