Tar and Feathers

A sudden and wildly violent crash of thunder rocks the walls of my little house and as if ripped apart like a pillow case, the skies open and unleash a fury of rain. From her perch on the bed, the small brown dog looks up and around, decides it's harmless, and goes back to sleep. The little dachshund, however, is unexpectedly restless. He mills around my feet until it passes, giving me anxious looks.

It's just noise, I tell him and scoop him into my lap, Can't hurt you.

The downpour eases up and wears itself out like an exhausted child after a temper tantrum.

Good boy, I say quietly and deposit him on the end of the bed. He looks around uncertainly then decides to trust me and curls up nose to tail although his eyes stay alert and open. The kitten soon joins him, nudging him under his chin and rubbing against his ears and muzzle, one good friend comforting another. She eventually settles in between his paws and he rests his head on her's. They are a portrait of how to get along in this sometimes loud and scary world.

I get to work only to walk in on carnage. The puppy, who has been seriously into stuffing these past couple of weeks, has discovered feather pillows. At first glance, it looks like new carpet had been laid from the landing on up to the bedrooms but a closer inspection (meaning I put on my glasses) reveals the remains of a feather pillow on the floor under the bed, mostly empty. The entire floor is completely layered with feathers, there are some piles that are six inches deep and the wreckage extends into the hall all the way to the top of the stairs. Without thinking, I pick up the mostly empty pillow case and through the cloud of feathers that this small movement creates, I then spy two others on the far side of the bed, not quite as decimated but clearly headed for the same end.

Oh, Jimmy, I tell him helplessly as he trots happily about and feathers fly around like snow, How could you?

He gives me a proud See what I did! look then scrunches up his face comically and sneezes. This causes another flurry of feathers - they hang in the air like dandelions in a mild breeze - then float lazily down. Despite wanting to strangle him, he looks such a combination of bewildered, inquisitive and happy that I don't have the heart to scold him, not that it would do the slightest bit of good. I settle for trying very hard not to laugh.

Four vacuum bags of feathers later, I decide I care more about my aching back than cleaning up. I've reduced the Storm of the Century into just another Nor'easter and not having any hot tar handy, it will just have to do.