Over the years, this column has waxed multiple times about how bad weather prognosticators are, wondering how those people keep their jobs (or why we listen to them) when they are wrong repeatedly. It must be something in our human condition to continue to believe predictions that consistently turn out incorrect.
Enter the dog. One of our dogs, Pepper, is a great weather predictor. Maybe we could have her apply for a job at one of the local TV stations and see if she could adequately and successfully communicate with viewers regarding thunderstorms.
Sadly, that’s the only thing Pepper can predict. She’s not going to let you know about snowstorms or temperatures. But dang, well in advance, she knows when a thunderstorm approaches.
The only question that arises is when the storm will hit, how long it will last, and its intensity. But, you can be sure the t-storm is going to be a doozy when she gets into Weather Predicting Mode (WPM).
Her technique is simple (and I’m assuming this is how it works based on reading her body language, since, of course, she doesn’t speak to me directly). Far in the distance, thunderbolts erupt and slam into the earth, creating gigantic rumbles. The ground trembles. Those tremors spread over great distances.
Pepper senses the rumbling of the turf in her sensitive paws, registers the incoming storm, and meanders over to let us know by trembling in terror, panting and putting her ears back (and, of course, looking very, very scared in her eyes).
Why she fears the thunderstorm, who knows? It must be primal. She’s a mammal that recognizes blasts of lightning could prove dangerous and life-threatening solely by the fact that there is power being exchanged, ignited, transferred from one location to another – from a cumulonimbus cloud to the ground.
If Pepper predicted on the TV screen, the show would have to take place in the basement or our bedroom. That’s where she goes to hide. Somehow she senses these locations are safer.
Pepper has never been wrong. Her timing has been off from time to time, but she’s always right eventually.
Years ago, I lived with a family who had a dog named Chicago. She, too, was a spectacularly accurate weather predictor.
Unlike Pepper, I doubt we could put her on TV, because her technique for communicating was more maniacal. Rather than coming to the human to demonstrate fear and concern, Chicago would go into closets and attempt to climb up the wall. Her terror was expressed through her claws as she repeatedly jumped and raked the closet wall.
Though she was equally effective as Pepper in predicting, this technique would not be good television. Then again, I’m no expert, and maybe it would be a wonderfully successful and unique option for weather forecasting on TV. “Amazing Dog Predicts Weather. Stay tuned for News Action 5 at 10 p.m. as we show you clips of a leaping dog letting his family know of an impending thunderstorm.”
Listen to the vibrations of the earth. Pay attention to your dog. They know.
Enter the dog. One of our dogs, Pepper, is a great weather predictor. Maybe we could have her apply for a job at one of the local TV stations and see if she could adequately and successfully communicate with viewers regarding thunderstorms.
Sadly, that’s the only thing Pepper can predict. She’s not going to let you know about snowstorms or temperatures. But dang, well in advance, she knows when a thunderstorm approaches.
The only question that arises is when the storm will hit, how long it will last, and its intensity. But, you can be sure the t-storm is going to be a doozy when she gets into Weather Predicting Mode (WPM).
Her technique is simple (and I’m assuming this is how it works based on reading her body language, since, of course, she doesn’t speak to me directly). Far in the distance, thunderbolts erupt and slam into the earth, creating gigantic rumbles. The ground trembles. Those tremors spread over great distances.
Pepper senses the rumbling of the turf in her sensitive paws, registers the incoming storm, and meanders over to let us know by trembling in terror, panting and putting her ears back (and, of course, looking very, very scared in her eyes).
Why she fears the thunderstorm, who knows? It must be primal. She’s a mammal that recognizes blasts of lightning could prove dangerous and life-threatening solely by the fact that there is power being exchanged, ignited, transferred from one location to another – from a cumulonimbus cloud to the ground.
If Pepper predicted on the TV screen, the show would have to take place in the basement or our bedroom. That’s where she goes to hide. Somehow she senses these locations are safer.
Pepper has never been wrong. Her timing has been off from time to time, but she’s always right eventually.
Years ago, I lived with a family who had a dog named Chicago. She, too, was a spectacularly accurate weather predictor.
Unlike Pepper, I doubt we could put her on TV, because her technique for communicating was more maniacal. Rather than coming to the human to demonstrate fear and concern, Chicago would go into closets and attempt to climb up the wall. Her terror was expressed through her claws as she repeatedly jumped and raked the closet wall.
Though she was equally effective as Pepper in predicting, this technique would not be good television. Then again, I’m no expert, and maybe it would be a wonderfully successful and unique option for weather forecasting on TV. “Amazing Dog Predicts Weather. Stay tuned for News Action 5 at 10 p.m. as we show you clips of a leaping dog letting his family know of an impending thunderstorm.”
Listen to the vibrations of the earth. Pay attention to your dog. They know.