The summer heat was oppressive this week, tropical, humid, and uncomfortable.

I say ‘was’ because Shortbread and I were in the park this afternoon as the weather started to break. The afternoon was disturbed by thunder which exploded across the sky. In between rumblings, I could hear a further agitation as the unsettled dogs across the neighbourhood lifted their heads and bawled at the clouds.

Big drops of rain percolated and plopped to earth, damping the crackle of the air, quenching the dog chorus. Shortie and I hurried home, she was hyperventilating when we got to the door, breathing more rapidly and deeply than normal.

Shortbread is unsettled by storms, panting and tail down.
Wally was unsettled by Mottsu’s disappearance.

Wally was Mottsu’s dog, it was unclear who owned who. A perfect coupling from first sight. The day we went to see the puppies to chose one, the smallest dog, the runt of the litter, threw himself onto Mottsu’s foot, straddling his shoe and clamping puppy teeth to the man’s lace. Tenure was assured for the terrier we named Wally. Ten years later, on Wally’s 10th birthday, Mottsu left.

The weather in our house changed when Mottsu disappeared. The air was fractured with mishap and disbelief, it rained inside day after day. Wally couldn’t have known what was unfolding but he certainly sensed something, and it was confirmed by his best friend not coming home.

Abandoned by meaning Wally, Mottsu’s dog, sat in our hallway and howled. His unbridled release of distress, his canine lament, further split my already ruptured heart. There is a saying that only a dog loves you more he loves himself. It’s true.

Wally wept.

Yesterday I wrote about grieving for our dogs. Our dogs grieve too, I know because Wally wept.