Little Missy and the Thunderstorm
The last two nights, I have slept in my bed for the first time since early February. As the old folks used say—and of course—I have been one for a while now, I have been down in my sacroiliac. I scheduled surgery to fix it, and then the pandemic came, and my scheduled surgery fell victim to some statistical model or other about how many hospital beds were going to be needed in Charlotte. Before the surgery, I had rejected another epidural, but with quarantine causing me to rest, I reconsidered. After all, if you have had steroids angrily speed down your spinal cord and rush down your leg, you might as well have another. What else is one to do in a quarantine? The epidural and watching the Harry Bosch on Amazon Prime really improved my outlook on life and allowed me to sleep in the bed again. So I resumed my regular sleeping habits—of going to bed and waiting for insomnia to kick in—which it did last night.
Whether it was that I walked the dogs in a different pair of shoes today or the thunderstorms that came through at bedtime tonight, my leg hurt just above my left ankle, and I could not get it to stop. So, once again, here I am past midnight, and Morpheus must have lost my address.
I was going to read until I got sleepy, and if my leg calmed down, I would come to bed. About 15 minutes later, Sandy and Chloe (our ten-year-old adopted Brittany) came padding into the den where I was sitting at eating apple slices and peanut butter. “Chloe is really so scared that she is just shaking,” Sandy said. “Can she stay with you until the storms are over?” That was an easy one.
So, Chloe and I grabbed a nearby blanket, and she snuggled up to me with her petite little head under my chin—the position she usually assumes when she wants me to do something for her. So, there we sat, the little mother of two litters, Boomer is a pup of her last litter. She stayed under my chin with me reading my book and rubbing her belly.
I was struck again with the sheer improbability of the dog-human relationship. Call it evolution or creation, it doesn’t matter. It is one of the most unique relationships on earth. To help out a friend, Sandy and I agreed to take on Chloe last fall when she was nine-years-old, and every day has been better than the one that preceded it because of her boundless love of life and puppy-like energy.
What a message from the Almighty —not a lightning bolt, just a 35-pound Brittany.