We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and I noticed Pete the Aussie wasn’t flopped down on the living room carpet with Ruthie.
So I checked his kennel, which is his “safe place,” and found him bedded down and looking a little worried.
Pete hates thunderstorms because he got left outside during a particularly violent one when he was about six months old. Maria and I were out of town and my stepdaughter Morgan was at home, but she was up in the attic, cataloging her stuff and had music cranked up on a boombox. She had no idea it was storming.
Ruthie stayed on the back porch, but Pete fled in terror. A neighbor said he saw Pete streaking down the street amid flashes of lightning. He was gone all of that night and the next day and the next night. Early the following day, a woman who works at our vet’s office was driving her son to school when she recognized Pete along a road about a mile north of town. She called us and we sped out to get him.
He ran away for three days about two months later when a beefwit neighbor shot a bottle rocket across our property and it exploded over his head.
Pete followed me up to the office a few minutes ago. He’s now huddled under my desk after a loud lightning strike hit about 2 miles from here.
No comments:
Post a Comment