In which Florence recounts a stormy night in the McNeel House.
So, last night we had a storm. A big storm. The kind that sounds like the roof is cracking open, you know? I’m not going to lie, I probably would not have known this, or any of the household events, if it weren’t for Wiley’s non-stop panting and pacing and panicking.
Wiley is…um, terrified…like really terrified… of thunder.
So at some point in the night I heard him get up, panting and grunting. He muttered something under his breath about the Little Hairless Pup.
I was pretty groggy, but he either said, “Someone’s got to protect the pup.”
OR
“At least we know that they’ll protect the pup.”
So what he did next was either, like, the bravest thing anyone has ever done, or Wiley was in survival mode. I don’t know. I’ve known the man most of my life. It could have been either.
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