October 6, 2005

White Dog spent the night securely tucked in the protective valley formed by our bodies. She did not like the howling winds or the shadows of branches drunkenly swaying outside the window.

This morning, bravado restored, White Dog surveyed the damage to the yard: small branches down, the garbage can blown over, the shad cloth unloosed. She was most bothered by the cushion being off the wicker chaise because she could not lie down in her usual spot to sun.