I could write a book about my dogs that would make Marley and Me look like a day at the beach. Granted, dogs are not wildlife, but they’re animals, and mine provide an endless supply of stories. Anyone who knows me (and my dogs) will vouch for this.
Tucker is a twelve-year-old Aussie. I hoped by twelve he would’ve calmed down or gained some sense. But no, he still howls every time I leave the house. I can hear him a block away. He’s still petrified of thunder, lightning, fireworks and his shadow. If I’m home during a thunderstorm, he shakes and pants uncontrollably. If I’m not and there’s a loud noise, his only goal is to run. If he’s outside, he jumps the fence or digs under it. If he’s inside, he digs at the windows and the doors, trying to break free. He has dug all the way through the wall of a house…twice. Several weeks ago, he actually opened the back door.
Last week, I came home to a redecorated house. Tucker had taken down the blinds and destroyed them.
Why?
There was no rain, no thunder, no lightning, but I believe there was a cloud in the sky that day.
