It is past nine o'clock in the evening, and I just asked that Spouse o' Mine if the dogs were in the yard - which they should not be - they should be in the Dog Yard. He asked why I thought they were "out". I replied that I heard a large noise outside, as if something approximately 120 lbs were standing on the cellar door just outside my study window. He likes to do that, the Bloodhound. He likes to step onto the cellar door and peer in to see me at the computer. He knows, just knows, that I am at my desk here in the early morning hours, and so I assume that he must check the late evening hours as well, when he is AWOL from his Dog Yard. Bad, curious dog.
But then, the noisy noise which I thought was emanating from the cellar door kept coming. And coming. And coming. Pound! Boom! Pound! Boom!
Finally, I called to that Spouse o' Mine and said, "Never mind. It's Fort Riley."
"Ah." he replied. He is so calm, under siege.
And that's been our story for ten years now. Bombing day, I call it. (Or bombing night.) I think the correct lingo is Artillery Practice. I am not sure what all the word ARTILLERY entails. I just know that our house is 28 miles from Ft. Riley proper, and the bombing days sometimes sound like we are under siege in our pasture. Just now! My study windows shook from the bombing noise.
This is not upsetting to me at all, except for the misconception that the Bloodhound is out and standing, looking in on me from the cellar door. Yes, when we first moved here to rural Kansas, the first afternoon, I heard thunder and kept looking into the clear blue, cloudless sky, to see just WHERE the storm was appearing.
Only bombing day.
I have learned.
But still, every once in a while I pause and think about those humans who hear this and know that it is life or death. For them, it's not a Bloodhound on the cellar door.
And that makes me sad.