Right about now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s raining here in San Antonio.

Such a meteorological event has become a rare occurrence here in my neck of the woods as of late. As such, I can think of a couple of good reasons why we’ve been in a drought throughout this year. Both of those reasons carry about the same amount of weight, and are evenly matched in their respective abilities to affect the weather around here.

The reasons are:

1. Global warming
2. The fact that I turned 43 this year

Rather than bore you with the dead on, wild ass guesses which connect the dots in a Rorschach-like level of pinpoint accuracy and explain in extreme detail why it’s raining here in San Antonio, I’ll dispense with discussion of the cause and move right to the effects.

First of all, it’s wet outside.

No duh.

The skies are overcast, and the 100 degree days have made like Ben Franklins fish and relatives and have left for the time being.

As I sit here at the kitchen table typing away on the portable version of TharpSter.Org, I can ‘t help but feel a certain level of physical discomfort as I pen my next dispatch to the web.

Far be it for me to yammer ad nauseam (bitchin’ Latin phrase produced in italics) about the importance of ergonomics when working on a computer. I should, however point out the fact that it’s important to pull your seat up to the table and exercise a modicum of posture when you’re typing.

As much as I would like to practice what I preach, my happy space for creating verbal brilliance has been compromised by the rain.

How, you may ask?

It’s quite simple really. I’ve got a dog who has been afraid of rain all of her life. It’s gotten to a point where I don’t need to rely on the pinheaded meteorologists who litter the local airwaves with color coded maps and stupid senses of humor. I don’t need to use the wonders of the internet or smart phone apps to figure out if it’s going to rain. All I have to do is realize the heavy panting and excessive clinging displayed by Faith at any given time is a sign that I’d better make sure my windows are rolled up in the truck. Be it a sprinkle or a storm, moisture from the sky is coming.

As a result of her fear, Faith has currently taken up a station under the kitchen table here right by my leg. Even more, she’s panting nervously in an irregular fashion against the aforementioned leg. For whatever reason, the process is throwing all of my rhythms out of kilter.

I could go into a long discussion about the different rhythms I use when writing, but that would reveal just a piece of my solipsism which I just don’t want to pass on yet.

I don’t really understand why our dog Faith (aka: The TharpSter TreadMill) is afraid of rain. We initially brought her home from the San Antonio Humane Society (I’ve provided the link in hopes that you will be inspired to do something charitable) during the Christmas of 2006 when she was 8 weeks old and previously named ‘Blossom’. There were a couple of times in that first week or so where I took her out front to do her colonic bidness behind the hedge. The rain was heavy at the time, but not up against the house where she was adding dynamic obstacles to the terrain.

None the less, she’s maintained the fear of rain throughout her whole life. A couple of years ago when she was still the only dog in the organization, we packed up and went out for dinner at Chili’s. I think I had the quesadillas that night. While we were there, a flash thunderstorm hit and dumped an inch or two of rain on us in what seemed like a matter of minutes. At the time, Faith was here at home, probably looking up dirty pictures on the internet when the storm hit. By the time we got home, Faith had broken out of the house in a pure full blown panic and ended up at a family barbeque a few miles away. Fortunately, said grilling family used the information on her tags and contacted the vet to get Faith safely returned back to us the next day.

Here we are a few years later, and we still find ourselves catering to the her fears. Life goes on.

Nowadays, we have a small measure in place which seems to take the edge off.

That’s right people. We’re doping The TharpSter TreadMill. We mentioned the issue to the vet a year or so ago, and he prescribed Alprazolam.

Alpra-what?

Certainly you may not know of this little wonder by it’s clinical name. Much like all of the popular drugs nowadays, it’s a little blue pill that’s either capable of putting the edge on, taking the edge off, or leaving one blissfully ignorant of the goings on within The Matrix.

Alprazolam is generally known by it’s brand name of Xanax.

This little gem can be jammed down the throat of a less than willing dog who would rather not throw it back with a glass of water or a slurp from the toilet.

Granted, the easier way to administer a pharmaceutically induced sense of nirvana is to just shove it into a hot dog and let nature take it’s course.

Either way works.

Naturally, I opt for the ole “Xanax in the hot dog” trick. She never sees it coming and subsequently survives the rain.