. . . he grabs the kermit-green jacket draped on the chair (mine) and slips on the pair of seventies-patterned rainboots sitting by the front door (also mine). Zelda's tail immediately wags back and forth much faster than my camera's shutter speed.
He doesn't really think it is a picture moment, but I do. I guess that's not entirely fair though, because I think most moments are picture moments. It's in my DNA; my dad was that dad (thankfully) with a camera nearly always at the ready.
He doesn't even have to dangle her hot pink retractable leash before she knows something fun is about to happen. I guess that's also not entirely fair though, because in her world, something fun is always about to happen. She knows that, and she usually shows it.
Without a word of complaint, he hooks her up and out they go, down the steps to our parking lot, which is more pond than parking lot today, but then, that's just something that happens to all great parking lots on rainy days in Charleston. Of course, if you didn't know that beforehand, you might be scared. But if you've been here from one season to another, you know that, and you maybe even start to find it strangely charming . . . especially when it is your husband who is walking the dogs, not you. You are warm and dry in your pajamas, taking pictures, and life is good.
Our oldest, she's timid and more sensitive than most. So sometimes we just let her watch her very brave and curious younger sister go first. Birth order be damned.
And if all goes well, she realizes that if Zelda can do it, so can she. And so she does.
Because as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow stated: "The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain."