Bo Bo would not like the Pacific Northwest

The rain is finally moving off the interior of Central Florida and over the Atlantic Ocean. I thought I should get the poochie outside before he left me some Bo logs in the kitchen. He already left me a golden pond.

This is one reason I’m a cat person. Plop a kitty into his or her toilet one time and then s/he immediately learns where to go.

So, I’m sitting in the front porch chair, which really isn’t good for my pinched nerve because the way my tookus gets positioned into this folding contraption mimics what the damn sitz bath bowl did to my back. Basically, the bowl could hold an infant butt or one adult cheek. Thus, I’m sitting on a bed pillow.

Bo just started scratching at the door; he wants to go inside. He does not like the wetness. He’s not thrilled with thunder either.

Bo, giving the dampness a dirty look.

The cute little bugger would not have lasted in the Williamette Valley, which I swear is the most fertile patch of land in the US. It’s also soaked six months of the year. Little Bo’s bladder would have exploded and he’d definitely be a strictly non-carpeted-home kind of doggie.

The rains in the Pacific Northwest happen between September and June, and in Portland, that means they hang around until the Rose parade is done, so that is until the second week of June. Mother Nature wants to make sure all the parade people get adequately soaked.

Since the rains occur in the coldest part of the calendar, the rain there is usually not accompanied by thunder. The atmosphere doesn’t get hot enough. During the seven years I lived in Portland, I think I experienced thunder and lightning about 7-9 times, and all those times were in the summer. It’s quite a contrast to Florida.

One time I was witness to Portland lightning and thunder was the day I decided to walk from NW Portland to my job in NE Portland-a distance of about four miles. It was Summer, and I did bring my umbrella, just in case, cause it looked like it may rain.

It waited until I was near the apex of the Broadway Bridge. The lightning began. Oh yay! I was walking under a huge metal structure, and under an umbrella with a long pointy metal thing at its top. I should have just put up a neon sign saying, “Strike me now.” It would have been ironic, growing up in the lightning capital of North America and seeing millions of lightning strikes, only to get hit with bolt number three in Portland, Oregon. It made a great cartoon in my head.

I got soaked, but made it to my job at Motor Moka, allegedly the first drive-thru espresso bar in America. I called my then husband, Brian, who drove over with some dry clothes for me. I think miraculously everything even matched. So, much for lessening my carbon footprint for that day.

Speaking of miracles, Bo Bo actually used the facilities out here and even took a small stroll through the yard.

He’s back at the door and the rain has started up again.

I guess I’m headed in to watch the rest of the news.

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