Writing in the Rain With Dogs

The juice from tropical storm Erin has been spilling on us all day, swelling the soil and delighting my plants. Cat is afflicted with rainy-day lethargy and is stretched out next to me on the extra chair in my office dreaming of catfish. For her, my keyboard tapping is soporific.
I’ve been at work for hours on a new story, interrupted frequently by sharp gnawing on my toes and requests to play tug-o-war with a raggedy stuffed duck. The dogs get restless when it is liquid outside. The absence of thunder has given Pathetic Bob the courage to dart out on the deck occasionally to pee, but he has been spending the rest of the day practicing couch slumping. Judy, the deaf one, has been trying to master macramé, but all she has created so far is a multi-colored rat’s nest.
My toes were getting sore from Lily’s incessant teething, and Sophie’s pleas for play were making me feel like a puppy abuser, so I saved the story and got everyone together for treat time. In the kitchen, copious liver treat were passed out as the dogs displayed their best behavior. Well, Lily didn’t behave, but she is young, tiny and insane. Even Cat snapped out of her coma long enough to slink into our group for her portion.
When treat time was finished, I tried to resume writing, but the liver had charged the dogs’ batteries, and they demanded attention. “Play with us,” they said.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“But we’re bored. It’s raining, and there’s nothing to do,” said Bob, acting as the group’s spokesman.
“You seem to enjoy doing nothing, Bob. Why don’t you do some more of it?”
“Come on, think of the kids. They need exercise.”
A chorus of yips, whines and barks accompanied Bob’s last remark. Cat hissed and told them to keep it down. At least someone was on my side.
Finally, I couldn’t take the complaining anymore and said, “Fine, you want to play? Let’s play.” I opened the door going out to the pool and went out in the rain. “Come on wimps,” I taunted, “Let’s run circles around the pool, and then we can eat some sticks.”
They stood at the threshold of the door and whined, “But it’s wet out there.”
“Of course it’s wet out here,” I said. “It’s raining, a tropical storm is dumping its bladder all over the city, but here I am, ready to play with you even though I should be writing.”
“We don’t want to get wet.”
“I don’t want to get wet either, but here I am, moist to the bone because you want to be entertained.”
“It is kind of entertaining,” said Pathetic Bob. “You look pretty stupid out there.”
The other canines began dog chuckling. I slogged back into the house, changed clothes and re-opened the document I was working on. The dogs gather around me, trying to hide their smirks with their paws. “Piss off,” I said.
Unfortunately, they did. About an hour later, as I walked to the bathroom, I noticed small puddles dotted the floor. My roof doesn’t leak.