standing our (flooded) ground
It’s 2:30 in the morning, and I have a story to share, a story about one heroic dog, an ongoing storm, and some very restless days and nights. I’d rather be sleeping, sure, but as The Rolling Stones oft remind us, You Can’t Always Get What You Want. (Are you singing yet? I am, but I could always use the accompaniment….especially at 2:30 in the morning.) I have never been one of those people who can sleep through anything. Dennie is though. That’s good. Someone in this house should sleep.
At this hour, under these circumstances, Christmas feels like a memory we almost made, a fanciful reverie from which we were suddenly jolted back into a bleak dystopian world. Short of a serious catastrophe, we have every intention of celebrating the holiday. We even still harbor hope that life will return to some semblance of normal by then, but lately Christmas hasn’t been foremost on our minds as it normally would be from November the first through the end of the year. For those of you who haven’t yet heard: we’ve been under siege for nearly a week now. Torrential downpours. Record-breaking floods. Landslides. High winds. Homes and businesses lost. Roadways crumbling, washing away. Much-anticipated holiday events canceled. Entire communities--nearby and throughout much of western Washington--under as much as three to fifteen feet of water amidst massive devastation. The situation has been officially declared an emergency. FEMA is here. Yet most national news outlets don’t seem to care.
Though more than 100,000 have not fared so well, we, as of this morning, remain safe. Somehow, this little valley has protected us once more.
The storms refuse to leave us be here in Washington state. Forecasts say we may even see some snow dumped on top of these relentless rains, but I’ll believe that when I see it. Then again, I have plenty of reason to avoid looking out my windows. It isn’t pretty out there, and, as much as I love snow, I feel confident, at this point, it will only make matters worse. As if the floods weren’t enough, currently—and for the last two days—extremely high winds are buffeting the house, along with tree branches and other debris. We lost the power about half an hour ago. There’s no telling when it will be restored. Unless I finish writing this before the battery back-up gives up the ghost, I won’t be able to actually post it until we once again know the luxury of electricity. In our remote locale, no power means no internet. Period. (The only hotspots we have around here are the inflamed sore patches Maisie sometimes gnaws into her skin during the late-summer-through-autumn allergy season.) The fierce winds and the heavy precipitation will certainly not make the job easy for the courageous Puget Sound Energy workers dispersed all over the western counties where outages have been rampant. With these terrible gusts, we’re not exactly at “We’ve got cows” stage, but it would be safe to say any of the smaller woodland critters without the sense to hide themselves away may well be learning the joy—or terror—of accidental flight. (Okay, maybe not literally, but my own imagination was half expecting to see either a mean old neighbor lady on a basket-embellished bicycle or a handful of wide-eyed, rigid raccoons soaring past last time I braved a peek outside.) The latter wouldn’t be the only poor souls paralyzed with fear.
Maisie doesn’t like rainfall at the best of times, but these downpours that began last week exceed anything our senior dog has ever known. Now the constant barrage of high winds has her so frightened, she refuses to relieve herself, no matter how many times we bundle her up and take her outside, no matter how much we try to shield her from the gusts. She is ten years old and already facing some medical uncertainties. As these storms persist, seemingly without end, I worry constantly about the toll the stress and sleeplessness are taking on her. This is why I’m awake in the middle of the night, passing the hours by the light of a camping lantern—because, so long as my dog is too afraid to settle back into bed to sleep, I will stay by her side, wherever she needs to be to feel more secure. Right now that is in the bathroom. Why did we never think to put a sofa or comfy armchair in here? A gently cascading shower of those poppies from The Wizard of Oz wouldn't go amiss either.
Even though I’m near, Maisie's cries persist. Because she has to potty? Because she’s scared? Because she’s exhausted? My guess would be all three….to a desperate degree. I soothe her as much as I can, returning to write a few more lines, maybe a paragraph, whenever my sweet girl lowers her head to rest. At this rate, it'll take me hours to finish this, but I don't care. I only care that she feels loved, safe, never, ever alone. Her eyes plead with me to make the storms stop. The best I can do is offer to give her Mick Jagger’s lines.
“You can’t always get what you wa-ant..
but if you try sometimes,
well, you just might find
you get what you need.”
Maisie doesn't want to sing with me, not even classic rock 'n roll. I can only hope she finds in me what I have always found in her--just what I need. From the softness and affection in her gaze, I like to believe that she has.
Despite her current jitters though, she is also quite remarkable. The loyalty of a good dog so often is.
I’ve spent the last couple of days under the weather, and while I am far from fighting fit at this point, my physical symptoms are temporarily eased. (My weariness with these storms, however, persists like a bad rash.) A pathetic heap sprawled over my bed Monday afternoon, I thought Maisie would ascend her little stairs and attempt to nap as well. At first, she did curl up next to me, but then the wall beside us suddenly shook with another wind gust. She hurried down the steps to the rug, easing her head out the bedroom door, tentatively stepping one foot out and then the other into the adjacent room. At a time when she would typically seek comfort and support from Mommy, she was, instead, protecting me. She knew that I was ill. She always does. Maisie crept through the first floor of our home, checking each room as I had in the preceding days, her apprehension apparent in her gait. Then she returned, not to the bed but to the threshold, an uncomfortable post she had never taken up before. Half in, half out of the room, she watched, ears tensed and alert, gaze scanning as far as she could see into the rest of the house lest that blustery deluge should have the audacity to break through and storm her castle. It didn't dare, not with my guard dog on duty. Every little while, she approached my bedside and rested her chin upon the mattress until I assured her that I was okay. Satisfied with my safety, she proceeded to make the rounds again and reclaim her guard post.
Once I was able to remain upright for more than a few minutes at a time (that would be here in these wee hours), she eagerly handed the job of Pack Protector back to me. My brave hero. My trembling baby. All rolled into one glorious furry package.
Now it’s sleeting, because, as every Washingtonian knows, the weather here is…so very extra. Maybe snow isn’t far off, after all. I don’t know, but I do know the ten-day forecast predicts significant rainfall every day...for the next ten days, with more high winds to boot. It’s 4:30 a.m. I’m still awake. So is Maisie, but she has reminded me what I always knew to be true. No matter how frightened she may be, this is a girl who has my back. And, come hell or high water, you can be certain, I will always--always--have hers as well.
