Picture This

OK, Picture this: It's three a.m.-ish. It's raining and thundering, a real honest-to-goodness midwest storm. I, personally, love a good rainstorm. I mean, really love a good storm. I sleep like a baby. Until, of course, the dog realizes that it's storming. Not just storming, but thundering.
And Everyone knows, any dog over 50 pounds hates a thunderstorm. And so, my 95-ish pound lap dog pushes open the bedroom door with his nose, nails clicking across the old wooden floors, and sits beside my bed and pants. And pants. After a few minutes of panting, he begins to whine. More like a cry , really. And when that doesn't work, he edges closer, and eventually gets up the nerve to stick his nose into my armpit, and rub it around and whine like a baby.
All creatures know a mom when they see one, I think. My dog, the Malamute, see-He's My dog. And he knows it. He knows I'm the one here who gives comfort, and leftovers, and the occasional early morning car ride. So he whines, and nuzzles, and eventually, like my kids when they were babies, he finally manages to wake me. And he's rewarded with the one thing that calms a 95-ish pound baby: a silent ear scratch.
He gets his scratch, and even though the storm doesn't subside immediately, he soon sinks to the floor, nails sliding across the ancient wood. I'm rewarded with a sigh, a sound I've come to realize means he's calmed down enough to not need to be babied anymore tonight. And then, after a little comfort from mom, he sleeps. All he needed was to know that someone was looking out for him. Someone in charge of the pack, in charge of the family.
Like a 70's cross-stitched sampler, I realize, an old mom doesn't die, she just gets new babies.