It seemed as though every time I thought the rain had let up enough to take the dogs out, the skies opened up once more. I love rain, but I don’t love wet dogs, and Zorro generally sticks his tiny nose out the back door, and then retreats to the comfort of bed, on days like this.
At five, the rain had tapered to a refreshing drizzle, and I decided the dogs could deal with that. It was wet out, but it wasn’t cold, and they were so happy when they saw me move toward my windbreaker, retrieving it from the end of the bannister where I’ve taken to leaving it these days, that they didn’t even freak when I put the hood up.
Cleo’s got enough spaniel in her that the rain doesn’t phase her. Also, she’s mostly white, which means that she has an intense need to get as dirty as possible. Today, I won, and she only got muddy feet as we took a route that didn’t pass any of her favorite spots to roll in foul substances.
Zorro impressed me. He was so antsy that he didn’t even curl his tail between his legs and demand to go home, when the rain increased halfway through our hour romp. He kept his chihuahua-plume happily looped over his back the entire time.
As for me, well, the windbreaker wasn’t marketed as rain-resistant, but it seemed to do a fairly good job, although I had to stop and roll the hood back so that I could see – a tricky maneuver when one has a leash wrapped around each wrist.
On the homeward leg of our excursion, a neigbor who was out checking her mail flagged us down. “Where are their raincoats?” she asked, grinning at the sight of us – wet and happy.
“I’ve tried sweaters and stuff on them,” I told her. “They always end up glaring at me with mortified expressions and refusing to move.”
She laughed and nodded. “Mine are the same,” she said.
We finished the block with bounces in our steps, and my smile wasn’t just because of the rainwater facial provided by nature, but because I have a neighbor who understands life with small dogs.