Postcards from the Edge

Florida thunderstorms are earsplitting. They sound like they are happening in our living room, not the heavens above. Bronson is terrified of the noise.  He becomes a shaking, drooling, tail between his legs mess each time we have a furious tempest. We’ve tried a Thundershirt, but no luck. Finally, the vet prescribed Xanax.

For reasons only Bronson could explain, he never wakes Jim during storms. I’m deaf. I have no clue the sky is falling. I can blissfully snooze right through the turmoil. Yet, if it storms, you can be sure the animal will be nudging me awake with a cold, wet nose.

Bronson’s surrogate parents, Brookie and Earl, know about his terror. The other morning, following a rude awakening by the dog, I wrote to them to complain that he never wakes Jim.

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Damned if Bronson didn’t send out his own postcard of censure.

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He even went so far as to color in the front of the card.  He has pretty good fine motor skills, right?

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