A solitary drop of water lands on the face. A warning shot. A prologue. But a prologue to what? Rain or worse? A well aimed bird with a grudge and excellent targeting skills.
D. K. Wall:A glance skyward. No birds hovering. Only puffy white clouds drifting across a mostly blue canvas. A few darker ones lurk at the edges, like teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Suspicious. Sure. But probably harmless.
D. K. Wall:The walk has barely begun. Three dogs strain at their leashes with the unbridled optimism unique to creatures who believe every outing might be the outing. The one where they finally catch a squirrel or get ear scratches from every passing human or encounter deer. And if luck cuts a different way, a bear or two. It happens. This is Asheville, where the wildlife has the audacity of downtown tourists and roughly the same sense of personal space.
D. K. Wall:Onward, feet pound pavement, paws skitter across asphalt, Two humans. Three dogs. Zero concerns. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. A pleasant half mile from the house when... splootch. Another drop. Then two. Then three. Arriving in quick succession like texts from a nervous date.
D. K. Wall:A sky scan reveals those puffy clouds have thickened, darkened, multiplied. The sun is still up there somewhere, peeking through gaps like a nervous understudy watching from the wings. But the blue, the blue is losing territory fast.
D. K. Wall:No matter, technology to the rescue. A phone emerges from a pocket. One weather app consulted, then another, then a third because surely consensus equals truth.
D. K. Wall:The verdict is unanimous. No rain in the forecast. Not now. Not for hours. The same confident prediction delivered before leaving the house twenty minutes ago.
D. K. Wall:Three apps exposed to the same data, all in enthusiastic agreement. They are every last one of them as truthful as a politician asking for your vote. But that revelation is still ahead.
D. K. Wall:For now, a shrug, a decision to ignore those clouds, dismiss the warning drops. A few sprinkles happen sometimes means nothing. Keep moving.
D. K. Wall:Another quarter hour rolls off the clock. The return trip stretches to over a mile, but nobody's doing that math yet.
D. K. Wall:A smattering of drops arrives. Not hard, not soaking, just enough to be noticed and immediately dismissed. The meteorological equivalent of a throat clearing before a speech.
D. K. Wall:Hesitation creeps into the gait. Even the dogs, those single-minded squirrel obsessed agents of chaos waver. Ears perk. Wet noses tilt upward.
D. K. Wall:They turn and cast long looks at the humans. Not accusatory. Not yet. More questioning. A raised canine eyebrow if such a thing exists, queries. You checked the forecast. Yes. You consulted the oracles. We were told this was safe.
D. K. Wall:Yes. Well, about that. The phone reappears. Those same confident apps, the ones that mere minutes ago proclaimed blue skies with the certainty of a tent revival preacher have quietly updated their position. A gentle light rain, they now concede, ending in just a few minutes. Nothing to worry about. An amendment, not a retraction.
D. K. Wall:The turnaround point is just a bit further. Why cut the walk short? Everyone's enjoying it. Well, everyone was enjoying it, though now a taste of dread cultivates.
D. K. Wall:Still, it's barely more than a drizzle, hardly qualifies as precipitation, more of a heavy mist, really, a hydrating walk until it's not.
D. K. Wall:The drizzle thickens into steady rain, the kind that doesn't have the drama of a thunderstorm, but possesses a quiet, relentless commitment to soaking everything it touches. Dog fur glistens, then darkens, then clings. Human shirts go from dry to damp to just jump in the creek and get it over with.
D. K. Wall:Debate erupts, though debate implies two sides. And there's really only one. It's less debate and more recrimination. We should have turned around.
D. K. Wall:Phones emerge again. Rain speckled screens glowing. And now now those traitorous apps confess the full truth. Steady rain. Next thirty to forty minutes. A complete reversal delivered without apology, without shame, without so much as a sheepish push notification. Hey. Sorry about earlier, but you might wanna grab a poncho.
D. K. Wall:Time to abort. Though the math is grim, the return trip is at least a half hour on foot, and the promised end of rain aligns almost perfectly with arrival at the front door, which means the walk home will be conducted entirely in the rain, every last step, as if the weather has calculated the route and calibrated accordingly because the universe does occasionally have a sense of humor.
D. K. Wall:Mother nature, apparently not satisfied with mere steady rain, consults her own internal settings and cranks the dial. The steady rain becomes a downpour, a proper committed cinematic deluge, the kind where you half expect an orchestral score to swell.
D. K. Wall:The dogs, dignified even while drenched, cast looks of pure undiluted aspersion. These are not the glances of confused animals. These are the stares of betrayed companions, creatures who place their trust, their very walkies in the hands of humans who could not be bothered to look at the sky with their own eyes instead of consulting a glowing rectangle. The guilt lands harder than the rain.
D. K. Wall:The trail previously populated with fellow walkers, joggers, and one man inexplicably carrying a banjo is now deserted. Every sensible human has vanished indoors.
D. K. Wall:The squirrels have retreated into their nest. Even the deer and the bears, thankfully, have called a time out. The entire neighborhood has received and acted upon the memo that everyone except two particular humans and their unfortunate dogs missed.
D. K. Wall:Walking faster helps not at all. It simply accelerates the splashing. Shoes squelch. Socks are a memory of comfort. Clothes achieve a level of saturation previously thought impossible without full submersion. Water runs off dog coats and rivulets.
D. K. Wall:A figure materializes through the curtain of rain. Another human. Surprise rain shower, she calls out, voice bright with a particular cheer of the completely dry because she is, of course, under an umbrella, a large one, a prepared one, the umbrella of someone who perhaps looked out a window, noticed the sky, and made a decision unaided by technology.
D. K. Wall:She smiles sympathetically, maddeningly, and continues her dry, leisurely stroll through the same rain currently eroding the last shreds of human dignity on the other side of the trail.
D. K. Wall:Her dog is also dry, strategically positioned under that massive canopy, tail held high, Fur pristine. There might even have been a canine snicker directed toward the soggy pack. A little sidelong glance that said, my human checks the sky. Yours checks a phone.
D. K. Wall:Trudge, slosh, squelch, repeat. Water cascades off every available surface. A grim, sodden march of the defeated. No one speaks. There is nothing left to say that the dog's faces are not already saying with devastating eloquence.
D. K. Wall:And then the final tenth of a mile, the house appears through the thinning rain. And because of course this is how the universe works, the rain slackens, slows, stops. The clouds part.
D. K. Wall:The sun emerges full and warm and absolutely shameless as if it had been there all along, as if nothing happened, as if two humans and three dogs are not standing in the driveway looking like they just lost a fight with a car wash.
D. K. Wall:A phone buzzes in a waterlogged pocket, A notification from the weather app. Chipper and unhelpful. Clear skies ahead.
D. K. Wall:The dogs shake violently, theatrically, and with what can only be described as editorial intent, sending a final spray of water across already soaked clothes. They do not forgive. They will, however, accept treats.