My poor dog, she hates this storm.
She is a Weimaraner, and a nervous Nelly by nature. It takes amazing dogie self- control for her to get through a normal, sunny day.
Her every waking moment is spent trying to do the right thing, trying not to get in our way, hanging out close to the kitchen in case anything drops on the floor while we're cooking, but far enough away to remain out of our radar, so she won't hear the dreaded words "You're not invited! Go upstairs and lie down." Which she has to do, because she just can't help but do what we say, most of the time.
Plus, she has to watch out for her alpha male man-dad who might walk over and pick her up unexpectedly, once every six weeks, just to mess with her head.
This is the same man who takes her on walks and over to the park for the "double poop" party she enjoys a couple of times each day, and who rubs her ears and says "you're a good girl..." every morning when he drinks his coffee. Unless she gets too annoying, bumps our hands, spills the coffee, and we decide she's "not invited" to coffee.
So this 50 mile per hour gale force wind we've had here in Bend for the past two days is wearing down the last shred of her dogie dignity.
The wind shakes the all the ventilation pipes that connect our house to the roof. The stove rattles. The microwave rattles. The bathrooms rattle.
And she trembles, and she whines, and she follows us around and pretends she is a tiny little poodle dog that can squeeze easily under our desks and fit between our legs and the wall.
"Don't mind me," she says, "I'm small, you won't even notice I'm here."
This storm also makes too much water outside when she needs to "do a potty." She hates getting wet. She is a farm dog, not a bird dog, we think. She starts her potty dance and does her best to sit perfectly still when the leash is getting hooked around her neck (which is impossible for her, but she tries) but when we open the door and the first raindrop hits her nose, she changes her mind.
"Oh," she says when wet hits her face "Actually, I guess I don't really have to go. I forgot. I think I went last night. Let's do this later. I can hold it, I swear."
But the worst thing in her life, by far is a chirping smoke alarm. So last night when the power went out and the smoke alarm started chirping at 4:30 a.m., she left the warmth of a sleeping child's breath and ran downstairs in the darkness to find me.
She was trembling so hard I thought she was having a heart attack. She's not allowed on my bed, never has been. But with one kind word from me to check her status, boom! She jumped up and plopped down as close to me as her large, lumbering body would allow.
It took 15 minutes of my kind words and reassurance to get her to stop shaking. When she finally calmed down, and the lights came back on, and the alarm was fixed, I told her it was time to get off the bed and go back upstairs.
She didn't even dignify the idea with a look. Dogs think if they avoid eye contact with you, you'll think they didn't hear you. It's their way of saying "la-la-la-la-la...do not understand...la-la-la...I only speak dog language...la-la..." This from the same dog who knows the phrase"You're not invited to coffee," no matter how you change your inflection. You'd think "Down," wouldn't be so tricky for her.
The children slept soundly. The husband decided since he was up, he might as well start programming anyway. The dog stayed put until I smelled coffee at 7:00 a.m. and she figured she might as well get up and check out the potty situation.
Drat. Still raining. No worries, she'll go out tomorrow, as long as there aren't any more chirping smoke alarms happening in the middle of the night.