I managed to wrap the last fastener on the wire just as the first drops of rain sent up geysers of dust in the bone-dry pasture.
It doesn’t seem like the ground would be so dry, just a couple weeks after a hurricane, but the ground was thirsty and the swamp empty, so all our extra water was long since drained away to the Cape Fear in one direction and in the other, South Carolina. The never-ending job of fence repair was made that much harder since the ground was like rock and I didn’t want to lug around enough water to soften the base of each post.
That meant it was nothing but sheer brute force driving the steel “T iron” into the ground, my antique driver ringing like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. When the fence has to be fixed and you only have one day a week to play farmer, priorities change. Hauling water ain’t one of them.
I hefted the driver over my shoulder and headed back as a low rumble rolled off somewhere in Bladen County. There were other chores, but the black towers stretching toward Heaven had other plans. I could see lightning inside flashing against the black-gray walls, and figured the storm would begin in earnest after while.
The Accidental Puppies did not care about thunderstorms. They wanted me to play, not work.
Misty— short for Misdemeanor— had an ancient bone that she carried as proudly as if she had singlehandedly taken down a bear.
George was reveling in all the wonderful smells of goats, geese, squirrels, cats, possums, our resident deer, and the skulking coyote that tempts fate several nights a week. Just like his Aunt Lauren, he found a greasy black stripe on the resident coon’s tree, stood up and bayed, the bluetick and Walker in his lineage challenging a ringtail that may or may not have been at home.
The Brown Twins, Grizzly and Kodiak, barked at a nanny goat who sent them yiping away when she snorted and charged them.
The grown dogs languished in the fenced yard, maybe remembering the days when they could slide through the fence and enjoy the adventures that necessitated a stronger fence. They greeted us as I closed the gate and flopped on the bench. The first spritz of rain had gone away, but with the goats heading for their shelter and the horse pacing I knew a real shower was coming back to seal the deal. Still, I had time to sit and enjoy the shade and the breeze that was gently becoming a wind.
The big dogs returned to their cool holes, but the puppies, too concerned with the wonders of the world, bounced and barked, caught up in an intricate game only they understood.
The twins got Misty’s bone as she tried to take George’s hand towel, the loss of which I had wondered about when I discovered it missing as I went to wipe the sweat from face earlier. Neither Misty nor George were giving ground, thanks to their mother’s bulldog genes, and they ended up swinging each other in circles.
Kodiak saw her favorite cat (Archibald has a sense of fair play and is very tolerant) so she surrendered the bone to Griz. He is a practical soul, and happily crunched away, eternally optimistic that there was somehow, someway, some nutritional value in the ancient tibia.
Kodiak then treed Archibald on a fence post, and he promptly ignored her. With an old time movie starlet’s sense of drama, she sighed and flopped between my feet.
Meanwhile George released the towel, sending his rotund sister Misty flying backward, tail over teakettle. Their momdog Boudicca was in the puppy pool, so George had to jump in. Misty realized the pool was a good option on a miserably hot day, so she bounded across the yard and splashed in as well. With that patient, disgusted look of mothers everywhere, Bodie gave up her version of a relaxing bath to love on her children.
Griz presented me with the bone he’d stolen from his sister (which may have been brought home by their daddy Jack when he could still run free). Knowing full well what would happen, I thanked him and reached for the bone, so he bounced away before looking back and challenging me to chase him. Misty was up for a game of keepaway, and besides, she wanted that bone, so she blindsided her brother. That led to a vicious, noisy scrap between the two, during which Kodiak stole the bone.
The rain finally began to fall, so I headed toward the house. The other big dogs were already inside, snoring peacefully. The puppies figured they still had too much to do, so they rolled and tumbled a minute or two more before instinct drove them to shelter.
George is the runt, so he’s naturally the feistiest of the litter. As the rain walked across the yard in sheets, he took his time coming inside, showing the storm that he wasn’t afraid. Reaching the porch, he stopped to smell something, and a clap of thunder rattled the windows.
Some of the other dogs headed for safe places, but George stood strong, all four feet square on tiny legs, and barked back at the storm. His lineage includes several breeds of hounds and his pitbull mama, so he fears nothing. His siblings joined him, and a chorus of tenor and soprano barks, bays and howls answered the storm. Whatever they said must have worked, because while the blessed rain continued to fall, the thunderclouds kept their mouths shut.
As they wormed their way onto the bed later — only Jack sleeps beside Miss Rhonda, so the puppies sneak onto my pillow — I thought about how so many folks could be a lot happier if they had the attitude of our puppies.
The Accidentals embrace life. They’re not afraid to share, but they’re not afraid to claim what’s theirs, either. If it can’t be played with, eaten, or slept on it’s not worth their time. Everything is done with gusto. They’ll fight if they have to. And they aren’t afraid to love on their mama.
One cannot help but wonder if the world wouldn’t be a better place if we all emulated puppies – sharing a little more with others, enjoying life to the fullest, and when necessary, be brave enough to bark at a thunderstorm.
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