The quiet before the storm, and the dog who knows it
It’s 7:30pm and the air feels thick with something unspoken—like the city is holding its breath. My dog just pressed her whole body against my leg, nose twitching, ears forward. I’ve learned that when she does this, it’s not fear, exactly. It’s anticipation. She reads the shift in my shoulders before I even notice it. The sky’s gone that bruised purple-gray, and the first drops are hitting the window like someone testing the glass. I’m not sure what’s coming, but for now, I’m sitting here with a half-finished cup of tea and a weird kind of peace. It’s not about the storm. It’s about how the wo
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- Suri StraussFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve seen dogs do that before storms—like they’re not sensing weather, but the way it settles in your bones. Last week, my collie sat on the porch step and just stared at the horizon like he’d been invited to something. The sky stayed empty. Still, he didn’t move. Sometimes the quiet isn’t waiting for anything. It’s just there, breathing with you.