Dr. Doolittle, Where Are You?

Our fourth Chocolate Lab,
our third rescue, on the first
night we had him, heard the
thunder and all 105 pounds

pounced on the bed, squeezed
between me and my wife like
corned beef on a Reuben from
a New York deli and trembled

for two hours with my arm
around his furry hide. Had he
been on his own along the
mean streets when lightning

cracked, thunder roared and
rain dumped buckets on him?
He never said. We all shudder
and flinch at the closing

cracks and roars. Did our
ancestors run for the cave?
Are the gods angry? Is that
Thor’s roar? Our fifth

Chocolate, will listen to the
thunder, wince, give it a shrug
and go out to do her business,
come in, eat and head for the

comfort of her overstuffed,
security chair. She has more
disdain for the rain that she
must endure than the thunder

that rings in her ears. Is
she braver, just a foolish
old dog trying to impress
her newly adopted parents,

or, perhaps, was never on
the mean streets in a storm?
She’s not telling either.
Doctor Doolittle, where are

you? They do keep their secrets,
but they do seem to be glad
that we are there, especially
during a storm.

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