One More Writer

Whenever there's a thunderstorm, Jack seeks shelter under my futon. When there's a thunderstorm and I'm not home, he either makes a jailbreak from the yard and escapes (he's done that twice now) or lacerates his face trying to dig out under the fence. The pink on his nose is abrasions from Monday's attempt to pull a Steve McQueen.

When McQueen failed in the Great Escape, he always got sent back to his cell, bouncing his baseball against the wall. Jack's failures all end the same way: He comes inside, and runs straight to my room, squeezing himself under my futon. No baseball, but if I gave him bones I'm sure he'd throw those against the wall. He stays under the futon at night, even when I go to sleep and toss and turn inches above him ... but by 6 a.m. he's usually crawled up next to me.

There are more thunderstorms here than hot women with wedding bands, and that's saying a lot. The humidity builds and builds and then a storm comes crashing in, with another following a few days later. A third is often in the works, and then the humidity crashes and we have 75 degree days and the cycle starts anew.