The Bully Stick

It stormed heavily last night, with bed-shaking thunder and flashes of lightning long and brilliant enough to read by. All four of the children slept with us, pushing Ken and I off to the far edges of the bed where we teetered and fought for blankets, bunching them in our fists and holding them under our chins in a vain effort to claim some for ourselves. Duncan slept soundly at the foot of the bed but I awoke several times to find him steadily munching on his Bully Stick. Unlike Ashley and Nikki, who were so afraid of our Illinois storms they actually dug a hole through the wall to reach the crawl space under the house, Duncan has never been afraid of thunder. Last night's storm was pretty intense, though, and when I woke up to discover the stick had been gnawed down to its last inch, I wondered if he'd chewed on it to alleviate some anxiety. He's not normally a chewer but tends to lick things instead––socks, sweatshirts, comforters, carpet, quite often until there are holes in them. Because he liked the stick so much I walked him down to Hero's this afternoon, braving yet another rain shower on the way. He plodded along, merrily hitting each of the puddles, taking extra time at trees and shrubs, rolling in the wet grass, oblivious to the rain. By the time we reached the store, though, the sun had come out and Chelsea was ready with another stick for him. He pranced around, head high, the sick clutched between his teeth. He even carried it all the way home, which almost never happens.

Ah, the lengths we go to to keep our friends happy.