A bad rainstorm brings my tribe together.
One slinks into our bed in the middle of the noisy night, wedging herself underneath the sheets between my husband, me, and the dog who is now awake and shaking from the crashing sound of thunder.
Another tribal member, long legged and sprawled on the floor, tries to be quiet as if no one notices a teenager lying on the carpet at the foot of the bed.
Tree limbs – the ones we keep intending to trim – scratch on the window like a scene out of a black-and-white Nosferatu movie.
Cut to the lightning followed by momentary silence before a loud thunderous boom, and I fully expect to see Bella Lugosi walk through my door.
They say nothing gets your attention like a Florida storm, the perfect recipe of gale force winds, rain and thunder.
In my house, nothing gets my attention quicker than a hyper dog in the middle of the night.
The dog, now in vibration mode, inches toward the top of my head which, by the way, faces my daughter’s foot because, apparently, children sleep a) better sideways and b) through Level 4 storms once safely secure in mom and dad’s bed.
Too bad the same can’t be said for mom or the dog who, in addition to shaking uncontrollably, has begun to moan.
In dog language – I speak Poodle fluently – this means “Bad weather scares me.”
Her heightened moaning means “Bad weather makes me nervous.”
Translation: get dog outside. Quickly.
So I roll out of bed … Ouch! … and promptly trip over sprawled teenager on the floor, but recover in time to miss the bedpost save for my throbbing big toe.
I rush downstairs with Vibrate-A-Dog.
As I turn the front door’s handle, the dog leaps across the entry with great purpose and intent, running toward the front steps.
Boom!
The lightning and thunder causes the now paralyzed dog to re-think her situation.
Neither fool nor full bladder can entice one outside on a stormy night.
We’re at an impasse.
My toe is pulsating more than the dog.
I’m tired.
Shutting the door, I head upstairs as the dog runs in circles in the front of the stairwell.
I care not what I’ll find in the morning.
Tiptoeing back into the bedroom, I stumble on the sleeping teenager and hit the bedpost.
Neither has moved.
Could’ve at least stubbed a different toe.
I crawl under the covers, moving my daughter’s foot off the pillow in hopes it hits my sleeping husband. I close my eyes.
Pounce! Dog returns, jumping on top of me (and looking less anxious which is of some concern, but at least the moaning has ceased.)
The next morning, well-slept tribal members awaken refreshed. My husband sits up in bed and says, “Gosh, I think we had a bad storm last night.”
I look at the dog, sound asleep, then at my toe.
“You have no idea.”