Picture it: Grayson, 2026.
Thursday morning.
Our heroine is ready for work on time. A rare and glorious achievement.
All that remains is the simple task of walking the dogs.
Simple.
Dogs leashed.
Door opened.
Rain.
Not a polite drizzle.
Not a gentle mist.
No.
The sky chose violence.
Now begins the delicate ballet of holding two leashes while attempting to open the coat closet and retrieve an umbrella from the top shelf, because apparently I believe in living dangerously before coffee.
At this moment the household divides.
Maggie (15-pound Chunkhuahua):
Sees rain.
Immediately aborts mission.
Sprints back toward the living room — leash still firmly attached to my hand.
Phoebe (Her Highness of Welsh Corgihood):
Bladder urgency has reached critical levels.
She charges for the yard like a tiny four-legged torpedo.
Meanwhile I am stretching on tiptoe, grabbing the umbrella with my fingertips like a contestant in America’s Next Top Disaster.
Physics intervenes.
The umbrella is acquired.
My balance is not.
I am pulled toward Maggie.
The front door slams.
Phoebe is outside.
Maggie is inside.
I am standing in the doorway of my life choices.
So naturally I scoop up the 15-pound Chunkhuahua, juggle both dog and umbrella, reopen the door, and yell across the complex:
“PHOEBE!”
Phoebe pauses.
Turns.
Looks back at me.
The look says three things:
💠I heard you.
💠I acknowledge that you are yelling.
💠Biological processes outrank your panic.
She resumes her mission.
I chase after her, literally putting my best foot forward (on the flapping leash), finally open the umbrella, and the morning’s hydration event begins.
This one built a drinking habit. ☕️🌧️🐶
Dogs make water.
Sky makes water.
Mission accomplished.
We return inside where both dogs immediately present themselves for treat compensation for their bravery during the storm.
Treats are dispensed.
Maggie returns to Blanket Mountain, burrowing so completely that only the occasional nose or butt emerges from the fleece bunker.
Phoebe, concerned about the thunder, receives a hemp treat and then supervises the house like the dignified elder she is.
Before leaving for work, I straighten the pillows on my side of the bed and lay my sweatshirt in the spot.
Phoebe hops up.
Circles.
Settles in.
And gives me the softest little look of gratitude. 🐶❤️
Which is how a morning that began with chaos, rain, leashes, and umbrella combat ends with something quieter:
A corgi on a pillow.
My sweatshirt under her chin.
And the comforting knowledge that when I come home tonight…
Two dogs will be on the couch waiting for walks, dinner, and my presence.
Also probably more treats.
Scratch that. Definitely more treats.
©️2026 Heather Nicole Kight. All rights reserved.
Menopause & Malarkey 