You hate rain Dwight. It’s really hard to get you to go out when its raining. You hold your bladder better than a college freshman in the bathroom line at a keg party. You stand and stare forlornly out the back door, but when it’s opened you turn and go back to bed. I drink another cup of coffee as we watch for a break in the showers and the clouds. The rain stops before I finish my drink. The sky is still dark, but we are risk takers, Dwight. I hook up your harness, grab my walking stick, and we go.
We don’t encounter too many walkers on the path today. A woman passes by wearing black fashion rain boots, patterned with pink and yellow flowers, that stretch up to her knees. She is carrying a huge red dome umbrella that looks like a lady bug. She holds it over herself and her designer dog, who has on a yellow slicker. Her little dog’s legs move fast, resembling a sandpiper running from waves. Perhaps they are hurrying home to build an ark.
You and I are wide open to the elements, enjoying the mild, misty day. We have a good pace going. The light rain tickles my face and frizzes my hair. I hope it teases your nose with the aromas of sky and clouds. What do they smell like Dwight? You love to drink rain water, licking it off blades of grass and lapping it from the boards of the bridges we cross. I wonder if rain tastes of all the places it’s been. Evaporation from some exotic rain forest, or a swift moving stream through a desert canyon.
We are free of umbrellas, jackets ,and rain boots. No encumbrances on our morning walk. Mist, like dew fall settles on your coat, my hair. We relish the cool freedom of light rain. Savoring the moment, we extend our walk to the woods, enjoying the stillness after the rain. There are no squirrels scurrying. No birds flying or singing. The moss is greener. The smooth stones on the path glisten. The spider webs catch the mist, becoming more visible in the grass. The foliage on the trees protects us as we forge ahead. The air is fresh and clean after the rain. What does your nose notice Dwight?
Protected by the trees, we fail to detect the increase in precipitation. We are more than a mile from home as we exit the woods to a steady rain. We get soaked. You shake from head to tail every 10 feet. My hair is plastered flat to my head, as water streams off my nose. Your short fur and my light jacket, with no hood don’t provide much protection. When we finally arrive home, my slick, wet hand can’t grip the doorknob. You wait patiently, as I struggle to let us in. You shake water all over the kitchen floor. I towel you off, which you seem to enjoy. I shower and change. Will we walk between showers again? Risk the rain without an umbrella? I hope so Dwight. Thank you for showing me the woods after the rain.