Thanks Fiona for this week's topic challenge, thunder.
If you're in Sydney, you know what I'm talking about. For those who aren't, let me explain.
Last night, Sydney copped the mother of all storms. We're talking hours of thunder, lightning, gusty winds and rain coming out of our rain.
It was so miserable, our tap dancing teacher cancelled our class. That's right. I do tap dancing. Let's park that for another day, eh?
The kids handled it pretty well. They didn't get scared, just a little hyped up as kids always seem to get in a storm. I think it's the thrill of loud random noises that Mum can't simply turn down.
So the kids were OK, and we were OK. In fact, we were more than OK because Ray Donovan. More on that another day.
You know where this is going, don't you? Yes. The dog. The bloody dog. She was manic. She was inside the house and constantly reassured by humans, but it wasn't enough. Thunder is simply dog's nemesis.
I found her on my bed pillows, squashed between the bed and the wall. I was thankful she wasn't on the bed (let's remember this isn't a cutesy, fit in your handbag kind of dog) but not happy with the scene by any means. Still, I let it go.
That wasn't good enough though. We got distracted by TV (it happens) and were unaware that she'd found a better place in my bedroom. Bitch was inside the washing basket, laying on the clean, folded washing. We swore.
At bed time, we pondered our predicament. Outside was not an option. We could leave her in her usual inside spot, under the stairs Harry Potter style, but we feared she'd take herself onto new lounge and sign her own special injection notice.
When I caught her trying to jump onto Miss 5's bed, I knew I had to take drastic action. So we made her a little washing basket hideout in our bedroom and politely asked her to fit her fat arse inside it so we could go to bed.
Naturally, she played us. If the humans are prepared to go to trouble here, I'll see how far I can push it. I'll pretend I can't fit in there any more. I'll pretend I grew last minute.
Bitch ended up with a beautiful, coastal themed pillow bed with canopy right next to yours truly. I couldn't wait to view the countless number of 1cm long hairs on my spare pillows in the morning. She got comfy, and she slept. Husband and I drifted off. Peace.
Until she farted.
It may have been 8 degrees, but we slept with the ceiling fan on high, recreating the outside chaos in our own room.
Husband still cranky.
Do you break the dog rules in a storm? And is your house still in one piece today?