Tobie and I have entirely different approaches to the concept of “walkie.” I’m generally going from one place to another at a determined pace, and regard diversions from the mission with glowering disapproval. Tobie, a big strong young dog, wants to check all the peemail and chase all the rabbits. “Arrival” suggests we’re going somewhere particular, and who decided that? The walkie is about the walkie, Uncle Joel, not about checking “walkie” off our to-do list.
His approach is probably more sensible, really – but it conflicts with my nature and I’m the one setting the agenda here.
This afternoon, though…
It looked like it might actually rain for once. Thunderboomers! Great wind gusts! Black, threatening clouds. We might be stuck indoors till evening. Better get a poop break out of the way right now.
And for once, instead of dawdling and playing the fool, Tobie was right with the program. He MARCHED to his current favorite pooping spot, did the deed in an efficient and workmanlike manner, and wanted back to the cabin Right Frickin’ Now. Because every time the thunder rolled the ruff rose on his neck indicating a desire to be almost anywhere but out here, preferably in the closet farthest from any window. And was I crazy? Going outside where the thunder might get us both?
We got home just in time, too. It did in fact rain enough to run off the eaves, for the first time in this so-far pointless Monsoon season. Only time will tell if it does any more than that today, though: It’s backed down to a drizzle.
Funnily enough Swampy who lives where firearms are regulated out of existence doesn’t even notice gunfire. The annual gamekeepers’ clay pigeon shoot is due shortly when there will be about 14 hours of shotgun kabooms. Which he ignores entirely as he’s spent the last 11 years ignoring it.
However if the Air Force had an adequate fuel budget (Which they don’t) they use the glen around here to fly low and fast and the Swamp Thing has a very good line in anti-aircraft barking.
Thunder doesn’t bother him. At all.