Awakened during the night by the log sawing snores of Asylum, the world’s worst guard dog and my ever present companion, is a sharp contrast to the peaceful rock-a-bye that lulled me into the trance of serenity only a few hours before. Nudging Asylum to interrupt his industrious fog horn, it is I who must turn over to expose my almost deaf ear, leaving the good ear planted firmly into the cool depths of a feathered pillow. Bliss.
The pampered pooch, oblivious to his war time assault on my sanctuary, wets his dry mouth audibly, and resumes his comfortable position, apparently forgiving me for agitating his regal slumber. I swear he was a cat in a previous life.
It is pouring outside. Almost violently so. Even the deaf ear can transmit the poundings of Mother Nature’s wash. But inside, in the warmth and comfort of home, hidden under a thick duvet, all I hear is a concert building to a crescendo. The best part.
Full of piss and vinegar, the percussion drives the thundering pulse, flooding the senses with an overpowering wave that the mind surfs to the crest. The blood curdling claps from above drench with a new thrust of down pouring. The sky illuminates with relentless natural fireworks. It’s like the boogey man in the closet, the shadow following your walk, by God, it’s like the first time anyone had sex! Electrifying and terrifying in unison.
And then without warning, its peak achieved, the very public presentation of its climax performed, the downpour returns to the precipitous sprinkling that first enveloped me in her bosom. My heart races against the quiet composure of the rain dance, hypnotizing me once again.
As if on cue, counting my forty winks, I slip back into a sweet repose listening to the soundtrack of a rainy night.
Originally published September 2010
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