But for the Grace of God

The rain began in the small hours of Sunday morning, hard, cold and without let up. It's December now and this small southern city, which barely a month ago was so filled with warmth and sunshine, has slid across the threshold to winter. The dogs have to be hand carried out and The Cat Who Lives in the Garage retreats to the relative shelter of that structure. When I bring her food and water, she cries at the injustice of it all - it's cold but dry, I remind her, and she could come inside the house at any time - but she fears these unknown walls and waits impatiently for me to leave. That night the rain beats like pellets on the roof, floods the streets and gutters, and gives me vivid dreams. A crack of thunder startles the cats and they scatter for cover while the dogs, one per pillow, growl and shiver and edge nearer to me. There but for the grace of God, I tell them quietly. The black one nudges my shoulder until I put one reassuring hand on her still damp coat - the small brown one slips under the covers and curls against me - they both whine very softly at the fierceness of the storm and one by one, the cats gradually return and take their places. We all sleep but it's light and restless. By morning, the weather still hasn't cleared and it seems I can't take a step without a nervous animal underfoot. The steady rain continues, pacing itself, I think, conserving its energy and endurance, waiting us out. There's no point in railing against nature but when I finally leave and find myself very nearly ankle deep in water in the driveway, I rail anyway - cursing the cold, the persistent downpour, the flimsy umbrella, the need to work for a living, and most of all, anyone and everyone who is heartless or ignorant or just plain irresponsible enough to leave an animal behind to fend for itself. There is, I believe, a special place in hell for such people and it's never too soon to get there.