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.
Damned if Bronson didn’t send out his own postcard of censure.
He even went so far as to color in the front of the card. He has pretty good fine motor skills, right?