Let's go for a walk ... in the rain

It's 7:30 in the evening, the cable is off, I'm tired of reading and puttering, and no one is home but me and the dog. That means there's nothing to do, and Zeke doesn't play checkers.
The carpets are wet from having been steam-cleaned earlier in the day, so I can't even roam around the house aimlessly. I'm trapped in the tile-floored rooms of my own home -- the basement, foyer, kitchen and hall.
I'm tremendously bored, so I look at my dog who has likewise been exiled to the tiles and is equally bored, and say, "Zeke, do you want to go --" But, I stop.
Because just then, somewhere between getting the idea to ask him the question and actually asking it, I look outside and see it's raining. Hard. In fact, ironically, it's raining cats and dogs.
Now, all manner of sentences mean the same thing to Zeke. Whether they begin with, "Do you want to go ...," as mine did, or "Why don't we go ...," or "Let's go ...," they all usually end with the same three words: for a walk. So, I'm pretty sure "go" is now the operative word for Zeke.
Sure enough, he's "dancing," paws pulled up like a show pony. Yes, he wants to go. Sure, he wants to go. Yee ha!!! Let's go!
Bad idea
I have basically committed to doing something I now know is a terrible idea, a horrible idea, a dreadful idea! The ground outside is puddling up under the steady onslaught of rain. Car windshield wipers are swishing double-time. Cars are going to start floating down the road any minute.
It doesn't matter; big brown eyes look up at me expectantly.
This is where the "masters" are separated from the "guardians." A master, like my husband, wouldn't even know Zeke has big brown eyes. A master would hang up the leash and slip into a rocking chair with a mint julep. "That's the way it goes, y'all."
I, on the other hand, am a guardian. I open the front door and show Zeke the weather. We stare at it in silence. I open the storm door, and we listen to the drumming on the pavement. Zeke seems unmoved.
I sigh. "Maybe I'll grab something to eat and it'll pass," I say to Zeke as if he understands. He follows me into the kitchen. With John and my daughter gone, I grab a box of Wheat Thins, peanut butter and jam. When I'm alone, things like this pass for dinner.
Thunder rolls in the distance, and Zeke plants himself at my feet. (He has gotten used to waiting for me; I never seem to take him on the walk as soon as I offer it. First, I get something to eat, or find socks and put on shoes, or talk to my husband, or brush my hair. If Zeke were Ralph Kramden, he'd slap me. But Zeke is Zeke.)
No turning back
The weather isn't looking good. I call my dad in Cleveland. "It's raining like crazy here and headed southeast," he says. There's no getting around it; I'm taking the dog for a walk in a monsoon.
I'd love to grab one of my two umbrellas, but I can't. One was ripped from my hands during a storm last fall. And the other disappeared mysteriously from my trunk. I like to think I didn't just leave it somewhere and that the blame lies elsewhere (perhaps with the same force that steals socks from my dryer).
So, without umbrellas, I must take one of the two plastic-y, torn raincoats from the hook in the garage. These are dark blue and black, with warm plaid linings. It's 70 degrees out. I choose the black one because if I drop over dead with heat stroke, I'll be in the right color for burial. Besides, it goes with the black ball cap I wear to keep the rain off of my glasses.
I still have on shorts because the early day was so beautiful, and with the raincoat on and bare legs, I look like a flasher on the way to a ball game.
(The only thing missing is a woman from Ambush Makeover -- the television show that takes poorly dressed women off the street and transforms them into human beings. What difference would it make? At the moment, I'm non-transformable.)
Zeke and I step into the rain, and he hesitates, but only for a moment. He is, after all, a dog. The rain pummels my hood and drips onto the hem of my shorts. My socks get wet.
"Never say 'go,' never say 'go,'" I chant as we round the corner.
murphy@vindy.com