February 12, 2009


Sadie is usually the dog who likes to be near you, but prefers her space. For instance, she'll curl up at the opposite end of the couch from where I'm sitting, while Scoop casually plops her entire body in my lap as though she doesn't notice I'm there. Sadie is content to find a spot on the bed near our feet, while Scoop is not satisfied until she has weaseled her way in between Aaron and me, at least half her body is on top of me and her nose is sufficiently buried in my neck.

Sadie is more than willing to cuddle if you invite her over. But she is mostly low-maintenance and respects your space.

Except during a thunderstorm. Like the storm that blew through the other night. The night that turned into the morning I had to get up before dawn.

When it storms, Sadie suddenly needs to be as near to you as possible. More specifically, and strangely, as near to your head as possible. Which means she crawls her way up to my pillow, then wedges her body between my head and the headboard. Umm, did I mention Sadie is roughly the size of a five year old? Imagine a fifty pound, furry child with a tail curling up in an area the size of a pillow. A standard size pillow. Now add your head. I try to move her, but she is clearly determined to be in that spot, so there she remains.

And she's panting. Panting so vigorously the whole bed shakes. It's kind of like being rocked to sleep. Only not.

Every time it lightnings, it catches her attention and she turns to look out the window, then quickly snaps her head away as if to say "I didn't see you, Lightning! You can't thunder if I didn't see you!" But then it thunders anyway, and she shivers. A little quake to mimic the sound. A small body rumble.

And for some reason she yawns repeatedly. I don't know if it's a reflex, maybe something to do with her ears and the atmospheric pressure of the storm? Each yawn is accompanied by a small human-like sound on the exhale.

And the licking. Oh my slobber, the licking! Approximately every 6 seconds, so quick I don't have time to dodge, that doggy tongue strikes! My face, arm, hand, head, chin, hair, elbow, cheek, knuckle - whatever body part is currently exposed and not occupied wiping off the last lick. It's as if she licks me to make sure I'm okay in order to reassure herself that she's okay.

Lick. Are you okay? Lick. I'm okay. Lick. Yawn. Okay, are you okay? Lick. Okay, I'm okay. Lick. Don't be scared. Lick. I'm not scared. Lick. Yawn. Quick! Look away from the lightning! Lick. Shiiivvverrr. Lick.

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