After the flooding earlier this summer, it got very dry and worrisome. We woke up at 1:18 this morning when it started raining, and by the time the alarm went off at 5:59 we had gotten 4.81 inches. We checked the basement with trepidation, but everything is completely dry. New sump pump=awesome. More flash flooding=not so awesome.
From 1:00 a.m. until 4:30 a.m. Monk tried to get me out of bed. He panted and face-slimed me, he tried to use his nose to push me back so there would be room for him on the bed. His thunder anxiety in daylight has subsided, but in the middle of the night he either Wants Us To Get Up And Be Observant Of The Storming or he Wants Me To Hold His Giant Bony Dog Body In The Safety Of The Human Bed, While He Kicks/Knees Me Repeatedly. Neither of his solutions are acceptable, so I kept patting his head and slurring, “Go to bed, Monk, go to bed.”
At 4:30, Coltrane decided enough was enough (she’s been social lately, and trying to sleep while pressed against my legs in a very uncomfortable way). This means that every single time Monk tried to scramble over to my side of the bed, Coltrane would freak out, hissing and spitting and swatting angrily. SIX POUNDS OF SENIOR CAT ANGER. (Versus eighty pounds of neurotic dog wimpiness.) By five, Monk gave up. I assume he decided Coltrane is infinitely more dangerous than a storm.
And now, a photo documentary about their creepy relationship.
Love,
black sheeped
