The thunder storms boomed; our poor dog ran away,
Last seen -- a white blur heading over the hill.
We do have shelters under which she could stay,
But when the storms strike, she can’t seem to be still.
With creeks running over and trees thrown around
We feel rather safe in our wooden shelter.
We throw open the windows to enjoy sounds
Of the fierce storm throwing things helter-skelter.
We found our dog huddled under a tractor;
She knows something about shelter we do not
Could tractors being made of iron be a factor?
We thought that our work shed was such a safe spot.
Maybe our puppy accepts something we fight
Should we be seeking another place to sleep?
Our hillside root cellar – would it be just right?
As the storms raged, we would hear nary a peep.
I can see us now, on our cots between cans
Of pickled beets, beans, tomatoes and what not.
This could maybe seem like a workable plan
If only there was space for a chamber pot.