It rained all night.
It rained last night after months.
It showed in the way it fell.
I was trying to sleep;
Listening to the sound of the rain,
Watching the lightning blink.
There was no thunder.
And then I heard whimpering
Along with a restless shuffling
Of noisy paws on a dry floor.
I called to her.
She ran in, her tail hidden by the rest of her.
The room was dark.
She searched for my face with her nose,
Lay down and put her face close to mine.
I put one arm and one leg over her,
And waited for her breathing to slow down.
I didn’t understand.
What was scaring her?
I thought if I covered her eyes,
Brought her face under my arm,
She wouldn’t be able to see the lightning.
Only hear the rain.
So I did cover them.
But she continued to whimper and shiver,
And yelp at odd intervals.
It wasn’t the lightning.
She couldn’t see it.
It was definitely not the rain.
She could hear something I couldn’t.
I noticed my patience quietly leaving,
Gradually, through the course of the night.
Something was bothering her,
And I didn’t know what.
It seemed like she was frightened by nothing,
And I tried to tell her that.
Softly at first,
Until my impatience grew impatient.
I was about to ask her to move aside,
So atleast one of us would be able to sleep that night,
When I felt her head. Shaking
As she kept struggling to bury herself into me.
When I was younger,
I was terrified of waking up in the night
And needing to pee.
I remember dreading it.
I’d wake my mother up,
And make her go with me,
And she never said anything about it.
She’d just hug me tighter when we went back to sleep.
I looked at the furry baby next to me,
Afraid of what, I still didn’t know.
Maybe she could hear the lightning.
So I negotiated gently with my sleep,
And hugged her tightly
As she went back to her’s.