The emergence of Mueller Lake was quite an expected event. The weather forecasts had been for substantial rain. The lake is in the bottom of a runoff ridge and had been used for, among other things, a shooting range, a play area, and a weird beach for a portable pool. It was a natural for a dog run during our recent drought.
The drought was in full swing when George and Grace came to us. It wasn’t until their “teen” year (last year) that they saw rain. They don’t like it. Not one bit. Gracie has learned that she has to get wet in order to do her business. George has to be teased out with the obligatory tennis ball. But he has learned to hold his water to an extraordinary length. Thus the use of the tennis ball.
But this morning, long before truly intelligent people rise to meet the new day, George decided he couldn’t wait any longer. From beneath his kennel cover came a tiny whine. Then a bigger whine. Then a short, almost quiet, bark.
Up I come trying not to disturb the spouse. Trying to find my slippers in the dark. Trying to find my glasses.
I open the kennel door and he runs to the back door. I open Gracie’s kennel and get the death ray look from a pile of brown and white fur. She is snuggled deep in her kennel under her covers. She knows what time it is and she knows that she did her business when I asked her to do so. She isn’t getting up.
I get to the back door and open it. George sprints out onto the wet deck. He runs all the way to the side of the house, makes a U-turn and returns to me. He stretches out in front of my feet and lets go.
I suppose I ought to explain that George doesn’t lift his leg. He doesn’t have to. A good dog show stance, front legs stretched forward, back legs stretched in symmetrical form, is sufficient for him to relieve himself.
By the time that George had completed his business and his rounds, Gracie was ready to come outside. They chased down the deck to the side yard to check for smells of the night’s intruders. Both ignoring the sprinkles and wet footing.
That is when I noticed it. Lake Mueller had grown. Considerably.
I grabbed my camera. By the time I came out of the house, the sun was up and the strange sound that I had heard explained the increased waistline of Lake Mueller. A creek had formed at the base of the hill and was feeding the lake at a furious pace. There was a bit of time before I could film the phenomenon. And here it is. By the way, that strange little, quiet whine you hear near the end is George. He wants breakfast.
Spoiled rotten little kid!
The spouse christen the noisy runoff as The River Gael. I didn’t think I was that muddy.