Let it be known that I don’t do rain.
I don’t walk in it if I can help it; I won’t run in it except to get out of it. I don’t like the sound of it on my rooftop or cascading along the eavestroughs. The rational part of me knows it’s earth-nourishing and life-sustaining, but the child in me who grew up in Vancouver can only recall all the times I traced the path of raindrops on the window with my fingertips and yearned for sunshine so I could go outside and play.
It’s raining hard this evening. Sorry, guys, not tonight, I say to Catie and Riley, who watch my every move with great hope, follow me upstairs and downstairs, to the kitchen, to the window where I study the sky. They went to the park this morning with their dad and my weekday after-work strolls are much celebrated bonuses. I feel bad in disappointing them, but the fact remains that I’m simply a rain-free walker. I’ll walk or run in blustery wind and heavy snow, in freezing temperatures and blazing heat.
I simply can’t do rain.
When I finally stop moving about and they realize nothing exciting is going to happen, they both settle in my vicinity with collective downhearted sighs. My aversion to rain is perplexing to them, I’m sure. They have no issues with weather. Wet or dry, hot or cold, it’s all the same to them. The world is infinitely fascinating and beautiful whether covered in sullen clouds or brilliant sunlight. Even on the most bitter winter days they eagerly await and expect an outing; sometimes they can only endure a short time because their paws are tender and susceptible to the cold. All in all, though, any opportunity for outdoor adventure is worthwhile, no matter how brief. It’s but one of their many endearing and unique gifts to accept everything without complaint, even my inability to venture outside this evening.
So we’ll just put on some quiet music, draw the curtains against the dreary landscape outside, and share some extra treats and cuddles where it’s warm and dry.