Samson is little ol’ ‘fraidy-dog. That’s all I can say.
At 3.35 a.m. this morning, I awoke to the realization that Sam had inserted himself on my pillow, his body wedged between the top of my head and the headboard of the bed.
Apparently, thunder was sounding somewhere in Canada, or maybe as close as Sheboygan. And he was hearing the thunder.
Well . . . . This progressed to him burrowing anywhere he could, staying there for 30 seconds, then finding somewhere else to burrow. And to incessant, terror-filled panting. And to increasingly demanding sharpness from me to ‘LIE DOWN.’
At two points, I put him on the floor with a sharp command to hie himself to his bed. He didn’t, choosing instead to pace and worry and pant and click his very-short-but-still-noisy nails on the hardwood.
Finally, around 4.30, he settled down with me on the bed and just trembled. By this time, the thunder was local and real.
At 5 a.m., I gave up on sleep. Coffee is made. I’m sitting in my darkened living room, a small fire in the fireplace, Samson now comfortably asleep beside me on the sofa, me wide awake way too early.
And the universe laughs.