American Eskimo

When I was a little girl, I had a beautiful, dog, an American Eskimo. Of course, my sister says she was her dog, but we all know who the dog loved best! One day, she was riding out a nasty, summer storm in our garage when lightning struck our house and blew out the light fixture on the garage ceiling. There must have been a huge flash of light, followed by that tangy scent of ozone, and shattered glass everywhere. The dog ran from the garage. From then on, every time there was a storm, she preferred to sit out in the open on the front porch convinced that lightening would strike the garage again. As a child, I would become so frustrated at her seeming stubbornness and would try to lure her with treats of human food and water bowls of Kool-Aid. She wouldn't budge.

After the events of last Wednesday, I have more understanding. I haven’t sat on the couch and watched TV. I haven’t sat on the couch that still backs up to the sliding back door. I haven’t watched American Idol. I want to. I love that particular piece of mindless, brain candy. But I can’t. Like my childhood pet, I’m equating sitting and relaxing with a particular TV show with The Beast showing up. So every night after work, I find more work to do. There’s always more laundry, more dishes, more homework, more dusting, more arranging, more folding, more anything…. Anything to keep from sitting down and being in a position of helplessness when he comes again.