The sky darkens, the wind picks up with a crisp breeze, the tree leafs turn over, and the first deep roar of thunder shakes the house. Billysky’s ears go flat against her head and her tail low to the ground as she races to hide.
Thunderstorms mean her usual hiding under the bed or behind the overstuffed chair are inadequate. Thunderstorms yield the kind of scared where Billysky buries herself under something so as not to see or be seen.
Her usual hiding place for a thunderstorm is in my guest bed. One time the thunder came so fast and near that Billysky did not even make it up to the bedroom.
It really is rather pathetic.