Molly Bloom, approaching her second birthday, is smart. She has a growing vocabulary, moods, and an interest in people and other animals. She is afraid of thunder storms.
This is an irrational fear. She hides, she trembles, she pushes up beside me and pants anxiously. She’s smart but she’s primitive. I think she believes in god. What else could cause those tremendous flashes and rumblings? Poor little beastie.
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Reading poetry to her may help,
see http://www.savory.de/dogpoem.htm
It is their ears. Their highly attuned and developed ears. The sounds of thunder, the claps and other noises inaudible to the human ear, are very troublesome to many dogs.
Canines have incredible auditory senses. Blow a dog whistle, and humans don’t come running. Humans don’t hear it. Dogs hear it. Dogs hear sound from much further away, as well.
Not all dogs are upset by thunder, but they all hear it.
There seems to be a sense of the ominous, the frightening, the unthinkable, and for dogs, the seeming truth of the unrespondable when thunderstorms occur. There’s no opponent or enemy to bite or to engage in combative activity. There is just this overwelming sound which upsets their balance.
And what do they do? They shake with fear, they seek shelter, they hide.
It must be similar to how humans feel when armed military corps (or others) storm into their territory for no reason other than to upset the way things are and force their way upon others. Without provocation, without setting rules of engagement. Seems a good reason to shake, wimper, seek refuge, and hide.
Shock, but not awe.
I’m glad I didn’t have my dog during the first Gulf War, when the SCUD missilies were falling nearby and rattling my windows. As Dean Landsman said above, “shake, wimper, seek refuge, and hide” pretty much describes what I was doing then, here in Tel Aviv. Now a thunderstorm is just a thunderstorm for me, but for her it might as well be a war.
Well, all last night we could surely tell when another squall line approached because Ms. Molly would then leap onto the bed and snuggle down between us. Panting. I am trying to help her through this by naming her fear. When the lightning flashes, I say, “Lightning.” When the thunder rumbles, I say, “That’s just thunder.” When she starts to shake and I haven’t heard anything, I ask her if she hears distant thunder. I’m trying to remove this belief in god she has, this trembling before the supernatural forces around her, before she starts running with some doggy cult and baying at the moon.
My lightning-strike story is here Frank :-
http://www.savory.de/blog_jul_04.htm#20040719
Stu