Rain, Rain, Go Away

It’s pouring. Again.

We can hear the water hit the building here, hear the cars tear through the river running down our street. But back in the Windy City, we lived in a massive old building on the third floor and the weather at ground level wasn’t always obvious to us. For our dog, the weather was NEVER obvious.

The pooch did not like rain, so on mornings of precipitation, I tried to postpone our walk until skies cleared or rain only drizzled. The word postpone, however, was lost on the dog. She wanted her walk and she wanted it immediately.

And so we’d go—me trudging toward what I knew was ahead, she like a bat out of Hell down three flights of stairs and nearly crashing headfirst into the foyer door.

Her tail fanned, her butt wiggled. “Through this door and out one more to the glorious world of scents and friends and beach and…”

Screeching halt at the bottom of the porch steps. That’s when weather became obvious to her and she made an about-face toward the front door, which is when I would clothe her in a clownish yellow rainsuit that she found humiliating. (I admit it wasn’t the right style for her, but we bought it long before pet couture became a big business and, since we’d paid a small fortune for it, we couldn’t justify purchasing a new one. In retrospect, maybe she would have skipped the histrionics with a style-appropriate coat, negating the cost of it and increasing our enjoyment—or tolerance—of rainy days. Sigh.)

The best thing for the pooch about getting wet was getting dry. It was her favorite game, one we called Mummenschanz. All that was necessary was to hold out a bath towel matador-style and she’d bury her head in it. She didn’t mind getting a body rubdown, but having her front half covered in towel was ecstasy. She’d bounce around reshaping her form beneath the fabric, nose the towel up and down, push it into a human for a head rub, and if it fell off, we were required to start the game all over again. If the dog was especially wet and didn’t get dry, it was only because we had other things to do and stopped playing the game somewhere around the fourth or fifth round. At such times, we brushed her with a lavender-scented cloth (to avoid eau de wet dog) before releasing her to dry naturally.

As fond as I am of those memories, I don’t envy anyone their morning walk today. The muddy-yet-happy dogs pictured are what you have ahead of you. May you stay relatively dry and drama-free.

[Photo by Ron Schmidt of Loose Leashes.]

Seasonal Surprises, Seasonal Dividends

now visited us today for the first time. Fleetingly. It left before I had time to get excited about it.

I wonder if the rain, which has pelted us nonstop for days, was as tired of itself as we were of it and decided to try a new look.

Or perhaps the snowflakes, confused by the glut of Christmas decorations displayed since October, raced here today for what they thought was a late entrance. Realizing their mistake after materializing, they disappeared.

Either way, I’m happy to be sans precipitation this afternoon. I’m grateful for this lovely long Autumn of the Bluegrass—for being able to dress in layers rather than hauling out the thick woolens, for being comfortable enough to sit in the yard enjoying a book and hot tea, for the slow departure of color giving way to a splendor of texture in the form of nuts, berries, and seed pods.

“Good heavens, of what uncostly material is our earthly happiness composed—if we only knew it! What incomes have we not had from a flower, and how unfailing are the dividends of the seasons!”
—James Russell Lowell

[S from Industry.]

It’s NOT My Imagination

As I write, it’s not raining.

I’ve spent most of this wet season being grateful for the flowers it’s nurtured, but in truth, I’ve had enough of it. I like gray, when it’s a fabric or ceramic; a daily gray sky, though, can dampen the jolliest of spirits. Even without the rain, this morning’s sky remains overcast. Is a hint of blue too much to ask for?

Yeah, probably.

“The rain ceases, and a bird’s clear song suddenly announces the difference between Heaven and Hell.”
—Thomas Merton

I’m concentrating on the better news of the day: Two House Finches have braved our new bird feeder and tasted its special blend of seed. I hope other little birds will soon follow suit.

[Pic by Wes Griffin.]

Soggy Season

It’s raining here in the Bluegrass—as it did all through the night, as it has across much of the country this week.

If it’s starting to get you down (your basement is flooded, some driver flew through a puddle that ended up on your new shoes, you’d planned an outdoor egg hunt for the dozen or so children coming to your home tomorrow), here’s a little upside from someone who spoke eloquently about any subject presented to him:

“Rain! whose soft architectural hands have power to cut stones, and chisel to shapes of grandeur the very mountains.”
—Henry Ward Beecher

[Art by Albert Bierstadt.]

Nice Weather If You’re A Duck

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 8
It’s pouring here. Again. Which means we have to be on the lookout for flash-flood warnings.

This is the norm here: See rain, grab ark. The water has nowhere to drain since the town is built on limestone. So water pools quickly.

But as I approached my local grocery store, these two birds were loitering on the sidewalk. They made the entire day worthwhile.

What gave you joy today?

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.

You Say "To-mah-to" and I Say "To-may-to"

Last night, much like every night this past month, it rained. Drizzled, really. Enough that I put a coat on the pooch before I took her for her last walk before bedtime.

Though my husband might disagree, I assure you I am not one of those crazy women who dress up their dogs. I put a raincoat on the canine for two reasons: 1) She hates the rain; and (more important) 2) I hate the way she smells when she's wet. We both win when she wears a coat.

As we turned into the last leg of our walk, a neighbor we often see came toward us. No matter the season, this particular neighbor always remarks that the pooch wears a built-in mask (referring to her brown head)—"She's ready for Halloween!" he exclaims. With Halloween rapidly approaching, I took a deep breath in preparation for the banter I knew was about to start.

Except it didn't. Instead, the man chided me for not putting the pooch in boots. "She needs some galoshes," he said.

Only he pronounced galoshes "ghoul-oshes"—emphasis on the first syllable. I smiled at his joke and before I could respond, he pressed: "You know, she could get sick if she doesn't wear any ghoul-oshes."

Hmmm. It wasn't cleverness I was hearing after all. Merely a mispronunciation enveloped in concern. I assured him that once snow hit us, I'd have the pooch in boots.