My heart goes out to Luke. At the same time, I need my sleep. Thunderstorms have become a situation this summer. 

“Rain is part of life, Luke.” I feign interest in my book. I want to validate my pup without coddling him; I’ve learned that an anxious parent causes an anxious dog. So, I’m doing my best to ignore the elephants in the room this summer. 

A rumble echoes in the distance—a challenge—before the BOOM smashes like a bowling ball through pins. The two of us pause. Luke lowers his head and grumbles, violated. “Wow. It’s raining cats and dogs now,” I say, hoping to speak Luke’s language. I can tell that he’s suspicious. He sniffs the edge of the French doors. Rain pounds against the glass. He backs off. The home he has come to know, and love feels off center. He paces the floor and pants. “Something is screwy around here. Am I adopted? Is this my home?” Lightning brightens the room with an eerie flash, sending Luke straight to the edge of the couch.  “This is officially bizarre.” 

“Come see Daddy.” Jim coaxes our uncourageous pup to climb on up. Though I’m supposed to assume a level of tough love, I find myself falling short. The storm has a creepy aura indeed. He lifts his front paws upon the couch and Daddy pulls the rest of him up. He adjusts himself with unnecessary drama, jostling and turning as though there’s no room for him. Then Man and Best Friend snuggle as though sharing a spooky sleep-over. “Tell me when it’s over.” Luke presses his big head into Daddy’s chest. Daddy squeezes him like a stuffed animal. The situation has become hyperbolic. I exit the scene.

“I think we need to help Luke better adapt to rainstorms,” I say, returning with a cup of tea. Luke squares his head to me from the center of a rumpled blanket. “We’re having a sleep-over, Momma.”

Hours pass. The storm dies down. We all head to bed, never expecting the encore that was to come. 

***

A pop of thunder rattles me while my eyes find the clock. 2:15 AM. I rub my forehead. A crazy dream fades to the back of my mind. I sort through subconscious and conscious realities. Luke must be so frightened downstairs. How are dogs supposed to understand what it means when a noise deeper than a gunshot resounds in your own home? He’s all alone down there. Maybe I’ll peek on him without him knowing I’m snooping on him.

I toss a tee-shirt over my head and turn the bedroom knob slowly, a teenager post-curfew. Then I creep down the stairs. A creak betrays me. Damn! Still, I don’t hear a peep. Luke must be sleeping. I reach the stair railing and crane my neck to see Luke lying on his side like a lion in Daddy’s office. Whew!

“Where have you been?” He snaps to his feet and tap dances along the floor. “Someone is trying to shoot us again.” He paces as though performing the word PANIC in a game of charades. 

“Luke.” I sit on the second to the last step and rub my forehead. I was in a deep sleep, awakened ruthlessly by thunder, only to be weighed down further by my own worry for my dog. The house feels oddly quiet, and it seems wrong to be downstairs. Luke smiles wildly, a natural effect of being anxious. The gate sits between us, a barrier that has allowed me to sleep soundly upstairs, while Luke chooses one of four rooms to fall asleep in. The system seems fair. Still; a concession emerges like a genie from a bottle. “Please, please, please can I sleep upstairs for one night—” His bear cub face stills. His nose is as moist and black as soft leather. How can I say no? I unhitch the latch and grant him his wish. Luke races to the top of the stairs. “I owe you!” He romps across the upstairs carpet as though I’ve just taken him to Paradise Island. “THIS PART OF THE HOUSE IS SOOOOO FUN!!  A hallway! More rooms! A whole bedroom!” 

Luke wiggles and wags and sniffs around my bedroom mess. “A sock! An end table!”

My response is less colorful. Quietly, I climb back into bed and give the top sheet an affirmative tug over my mouth. “Good night, Luke.” He senses the tone of my statement. “I get it. The upstairs is fun, but it’s still bedtime.” He curls up on the floor, grateful. My story should end here, and happily. 

“Thunk, thunk, jingle. Jingle, jingle, thunk.”

Living with Luke comes with a twist. I’m stripped from another dream. The clock reads an absurd 4:13 am. I calculate how many more hours until I’ll be shuffling across a stage to teach a rigorous Zumba class. The math is not promising. Meanwhile, Luke shakes his head so that his collar bling jingles. “No offense, but these four walls are starting to feel confining.” Just in case I didn’t pick up on the (unsubtle) jangling clue, he uses his back paws to scratch his head, causing a rap melody against the door. 

“Bomp-ditty, bomp, bomp, bomp.” The storm is officially over. I’d prefer the sound of thunder at this point.  “Really, Luke?” I stumble, half-naked, to the doorway, let him out, and shuffle back down the stairs. He cuts me off like a child in a hasty lunch line and arrives back at the gate at the bottom of the stairs. “I think it’s locked.” Luke is correct. I unlock the gate and set him free to the downstairs, where I watch him curl up to the shape of a doughnut on his bed, and sigh. “It would be a miracle if a dog could get any sleep around here.”

The irony is not lost on me but, then again, Living with Luke is rarely dull.

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