Well, last night we learned that Boscoe can still get up the stairs

After a very dry June and July, we finally got rain yesterday. Last night thunderstorms rolled in--loud and violent, lots of lightning and thunder. Woke us all up around midnight. Riley leaped off the bed and zipped into the bathroom and hid behind the door. Doug tossed a stuffed loon in with him, for comfort.

Meanwhile, Boscoe was downstairs on the futon, with me. He has not been upstairs in a month, since that Monday when he suddenly screamed in pain and couldn't get up. He's much better now, almost completely weaned off the Metacam, trotting along slowly but happily enough on the morning walks. But he has not been upstairs.

We tried to lure him up a few nights ago, but he refused to even try. Just sat at the foot of the stairs in the dark, waiting for one of us to come back down and sleep with him. So Doug did, finally. It just felt wrong to leave him down there alone.

But last night we got one clap of thunder that sounded like a pile of bricks falling on the house. It was so loud, and so close, that even I was unnerved. And that was it for Boscoe. He jumped up with more enthusiasm than I've seen out of him in years, and--butt first, of course--heaved himself up the stairs in record time.

That settles that, I thought. He can get up the stairs.

Ah yes. He can. But there's just one thing: He can't get back down again.

I see more nights on the futon in my future.