Storm dogs

A storm will come.

I noticed my old neighbor Jim when he leaned on a rake and looked at the sky.

I also looked at the sky. It looked absolutely normal. In fact, it looked pretty pretty, you could even see some kind of blue, which was amazing for Scotland.

Aya.

I nodded wisely to impress Jim, as if I had also reached the wisdom of the ancients.

You can see it.

He said in his old and wise way.

Aya. Yes, you can.

I whistled softly, leaning on my own rake, wanting me to have a long piece of straw to chew on. Or gloves. My hands were freezing. Not like Jim, who had hands like those leathery pork ears that dogs chew.

And if you can see it, you can feel it.

He said with a grin.

Aya. Smell it.

I echoed, wishing that I could see and smell like storms, like some kind of storm dog.

One of our neighbors, Morven from several houses down, was passing by at that moment.

Do you feel it, Jim?

He barked like an old gray-haired Alsatian yanking someone's bacon shorts.

Yes, the storm has come.

Jim growled back.

God, look at these two. Two old storm dogs sniff around the base of mother nature tree for some kind of evil enemy dog.

Storm Dogs. The idea is sung for me at the initial level. I turned it over in my head, imagining myself dressed in black leather with a cloak standing next to the two on the roof, smelling storms and howling at night.

Woof!

I barked excitedly.

What did you say?

The two old men looked at me as if at me, as if I had just told them that one of the children had torn my knitting.

I cleared my throat and tried to look old and serious before nodding to the sky.

The storm has come.