Friday, June 26, 2009
The dogs are looking at me like I can do something about this heat. Lying on their sides panting, lifting their heads now and then to shoot me sidelong glances. And when I don't respond, they plop their heads back down with a passive aggressive sigh. The dogs barely take my word for basic stuff like it's not a good idea to taunt swans or growl at rabid Mastiffs, so it's beyond me why they think I might be able to control the weather. But along came the storm, a huge thundering downpour that soaked everything from top to bottom. Just before the storm broke, Ira ran up from the cabin to bark at a fellow who dared to stop and chat while I was sitting in the cockpit. I was just instructing Ira to shut the hell up when "CRACK", thunder and lightening hit all at once. The Yorkie was abruptly startled off his perch and ran back down into the cabin with his stubby tail between his legs. And here they are waiting out the storm, water dripping into the pot between them, like there's nowhere else to sit but right under the leaky hatch.