White Dog and Quinn were lulled into ennui by the heavy, humid air draping everything on this grey day. Such days are unusual here in the land of big blue skies and desert dryness. We sat on the porch and watched the clouds build until they pushed down so low that we had to make a hasty retreat indoors to avoid the blowing downpour.
All afternoon White Dog guarded me from the strafing waves of storm, heavy and loud, and so incredibly moody. The Other White Dog, who marches to a different drummer, went out to the back deck often and stood as the water soaked him. When he came in, he glistened like his fur was tipped with a billion diamonds. White Dog and I thought him beautiful but daft.
The rain continues tonight (again, such longevity for a front is out of place) and all hopes we had of howling under the Harvest Moon are dashed. White Dog has reluctantly agreed to take Steve for a pre-bed walk but dreads crunching past the snails (out in droves) and hates the thought of ankle-deep puddles. Quinn, on the other hand, is humming "I'm singin' in the rain, just singin' in the rain, what a wonderful feeling, I'm happy again..."