I know it’s a little thing, but I’m glad I get to go potty in the house. Our dog, on the other hand, enjoys no such luxury. Not that she doesn’t occasionally cross that line, but certainly not with the blessing of either my wife or me.
As with most of the southeastern United States, it’s rained in Alabama quite a bit over the last few days. To be fair to Maggie, our dog, “quite a bit” is somewhat of an understatement. It’s rained a lot; nearly six inches in the surrounding area. You know it’s going to be real when the National Weather Service issues a flood warning before the first drop falls.
After two solid days of rain, our back yard is a mess that’s a few inches deep in some places, complete with a stream that’s floated a canoe before (we just had to try). The subdivision developer clearly favored our neighbor’s property.
This morning, as I have many times before, I put Maggie on her leash, bracing myself for the disbelieving look of betrayal that comes with the back door opening instead of the front. We went outside into what was a heavy drizzle, me leading the way in a resolute show of solidarity, searching for and finding high ground. A mournful look, a shake or two, and a distracted stare at what must have been a squirrel in the mist: All of those had to take place before the eventual crouch.
And then we were back through the door. A solid shake, a cookie, and all was well in the world. Until, that is, I get home from school. Here’s hoping that approaching front passes through early.