2002-08-14 � The threat of thunder

the threat of thunder

The Wolf has taken refuge in her "den" under my desk this morning, along with a pair of of my unmentionables. Yes, the fearsome rumblies are cruising the lakeshore this hour.

She wasn't always afraid of thunder. Until she was about 7 months old, she couldn't care less about thunder and lightening and things that go boom in the night. A fierce window-rattling storm could roll thru and she would continue to be her frolicsome puppy self, gnawing on tennis balls and toes, racing around the coffee table and taking the stairs two at a time, pouncing to and fro with the occasional pause for exuberant kisses. The only thing she was afraid of then was the electronic tune from the Santa Claus fridge magnet Jack's mom had planted in his stocking the year before and we kept forgetting to put away. There are some definitely sinister undertones to "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," you have to admit. And I must confess, that powerful pitch emitting from a bearded ceramic elf kind of gave me the willies too.

But one fateful afternoon, while my parents were visiting, she had a hair-raising experience that changed all that. She was sacked out on my dad's belly, the pair of them snoring away while WWII boomed away on the History Channel when suddenly a peal of thunder exploded directly above the House of Wee, shaking the earth and knocking the large picture above the couch off the wall. The glass shattered over the pair of them, sending the Wolf squealing in fear to hide under the bed and leaving my dad snarling like an injured bear. Neither of them was actually hurt but the wolf has been understandably terrified of thunder ever since.

She's too big now to squeeze under the bed and has been forced to resort to hiding in one of three places, depending on the severity of the rumblies. If it's not too forceful a storm, she plants herself right smack in the middle of our bed, head on paws, eyes huge and liquid with gloom. The second place of retreat is here under my desk, with some clothing item (one of Jack's socks, my shoe, or in this case, my pink cotton panties) wadded comfortingly beneath her chin. The final place of retreat is our bedroom closet where she wedges herself behind the laundry hamper refusing to be soothed or coaxed out.

Animals in distress are much on my mind today. Our walk on the wild side was dark and still and eerie, the air chunky with humidity and alive with the threat of rain. Nailed to a big oak tree under the lost tabby ("Buttons") flyer that's been there for weeks now was a new missing pet sign, this time a dog name Toby. As I read the flyer, I suddenly remembered the dog I saw yesterday morning as I was driving into the park. Just past the gatehouse, off the gravel road in the field to the right was a scraggly-looking mutt with sad, sad eyes and an uneasy air about him. He put me in mind of the Tramp of Lady and the Tramp fame, only this guy was a lot less sporty. I remember scanning the field for signs of his human , looking back into my rear view mirror hoping one would emerge and ease my concern. When I didn't see anyone, I told myself he had just wandered away from the nearby campsite, having himself a little morning snuffle around the block.

Now, I wish I'd stopped. The dog on the poster looks like the lost tramp I saw by the side of the road yesterday, only I remember the dog on the side of the road as being dark grey, not black. Anyway, i called and left a report of this sighting on Toby's owners' answering machine and reported it at the gatehouse. Hopefully, they'll call back. Hopefully, Toby will be reunited with his family.

Lost animals make me ache with sadness.

Guess who just showed up at my door? That's right, the Toronto Humane Society. Seeking donations. Do you even have to ask if I gave a donation or not?
thinking about: a drowned elephant in Prague.


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