Wally and the Storms

It was a Friday afternoon, and I was sitting at the dining room table with Tess doling out her snack and texting with a friend about our plans that night. We were debating whether to carpool down to Westport or Uber together.

“My plan is to be home by midnight,” her text read.

“Same!” I typed back. “We were up all night with the dog.”

“Hahaha [some jovial laughter emojis]!” She thought I was kidding.

No, but really. We were up all night with Wally.

It’s spring. Which means thunderstorms. Which means Wally has to employ his most neurotic habits all night long. Hyperventilating. Whimpering. Pacing, Digging. Panting.  

And the severity of the storms doesn’t matter.

It can be those gentle storms with low rumbling thunder in the distance and minimal rain.  Or it can be the more violent kind. When the thunder claps and bangs feel like they’re inside your house, and the lightning tears jagged lines across the sky. Like God put His ceiling fan on the highest setting to see how many trees he can churn down, and everyone’s on edge waiting for the tornado sirens to summon them to the basements. And the rain’s coming down in buckets and flash flood warnings are interrupting our programs.

Or it could be drizzling.

Doesn’t matter. Wally will FREAK OUT. And in the middle of the day, who cares? He gets some extra pets and follows us around, his hot breath on the backs of our calves. We tell him to calm down and try not to make a big deal about the weather.

But in the middle of the niiiiiight…different story.

Once we found him frantically clawing up the rug on the landing to the second floor—that rug is destroyed. For a few months last fall, we ‘d find him in Tess’s room, scratching and clawing the foam play mat in the middle of the hardwood floor. If one of us heard him open her door, we’d hurry in, throwing on a bathrobe as we fished him out of there, careful not to wake her up.  And since her door doesn’t properly latch, he’d do it again and again.

Other nights, he would wake her up. In fact, he’s pretty smart guy. I actually think he’s learned to shove the door open quietly, as though he doesn’t want Tighe or me to wake up. Scratching at that foam is the only thing that makes him feel better and he’s desperate to get in there. We’d find him clawing away like a meth addict, with Tess standing in her crib, half mad at being awake and half confused at why her beloved dog is in there.

Should she file a police report? Alert the neighborhood watch? [Of which she’s the president, by the way. See picture below.] Or take him to therapy?

Trust no one... #CitizensOnPatrol...

And lately, he’s been seeking shelter with Nate and Sam. They don’t have a rug to shred, so he’s been climbing into the bottom bunk with Sam. But Wally’s a monstrous dog! As a babysitter recently proclaimed, “He’s just a big muppet!” He dwarfs Sam’s bed, making it look like a school for ants.

Look at that big Muppet!

The first time he did it, just a few weeks ago, we let it happen. We actually thought it was cute. Sam loves to cuddle with Wally, we finally found a solution.

But a few minutes later, there was a light tapping on our door.

Sam. Shirtless, lovies in hand, “Wally won’t get out of my bed!” It was the highest pitch, most pathetic whimper you’ve ever heard—second to Wally’s, of course. Like he realized he had to be quiet so he didn’t wake Nate or Tess, but he really didn’t know what to do.

Fine. Plan D, then.

So we bring him into our room. Which he hates for some reason. No idea why he takes solace with a baby and a clueless four year-old and yet has the need to escape from us—two rational adults with problem-solving skills and much more t-storm experience. I mean, I’m slightly offended, but whatever.

Against his will, we hold him hostage for the night, enduring his hot, stinky dog breath on our faces while we pretend to sleep, trying to ignore the clicking of his nails on the hardwood floors. Earlier this week during a particularly stormy night, when Tighe—lucky guy—was out of town, Wally crept into our closet, which is carpeted, and began clawing and pushing and shoving and circling as though he was trying to make a protective nest.

I mean, I feel for him. I do! I just really want to sleep.

The next morning it looked like a tornado actually had ripped through the closet. Shoes and flip-flops were scattered, button-down shirts were strewn on the floor, and suitcases were pushed over.

That night it had stormed off and on from 11pm until 4am. Wally and I got very little sleep. Fine for him, he napped the whole next day. But me? It’s summer vacay, I had to be ON! Story time, pool, karate, t-ball practice, sibling squabbles to settle, meals to prepare, laundry to fold, band-aids to adhere, milk spills to mop up…

Last night was a similar story. After several thwarted attempts to get into Sam’s bed again, Tighe eventually dragged him down to the first floor and set up a blockade of dining room chairs across the bottom of the steps. One especially loud thunderclap later, and we heard a chair topple over, four furry legs creeping up the steps, and Sam’s door pop open.

“I’ll get him,” I said heroically. [This part may have been embellished by the author. I chose—for artistic reasons—to gloss over the brief, sleep-deprived marital spat that preceded my noble words.]

I dragged him downstairs, lifting the toppled dining room chair. Curling up on the couch and wrapping a blanket around my bare feet, I coaxed him to lay in front of me. He was beyond reluctant, and I just wanted to sleep.

But like any hero, I was committed to my cause—allowing my family to sleep while I dealt with our terrified canine. Resting my hand on his back, I closed my eyes and began to doze. At which point, he would start to slink away, looking to sneak back up to Sam’s room. I would shoot upright and whisper-shout, “Wally! Get back here!”

He’d pause, look at me as though I had seriously ruined his day, drop his head, and slowly return to his spot next to me. This happened six or seven times until I finally heard the birds starting to chirp and sunlight starting to creep across our backyard through the patio doors. Soon I heard Tess, talking to herself in her crib. Then Sam tiptoeing down the steps, followed a few minutes later by Nate, into the sunroom to begin their morning Lego routine.

And so, another night passed without much sleep. That’s okay, it’s Saturday. T-ball will be rained out. Tighe will be home, finishing his beloved basketball hoop. Tess will nap. Nate and Sam will Lego. And Tighe and I will Netflix and chill—meaning fall asleep on the couch.

Until the next round of storms…