The rain came down like cats and dogs. And mice
No, not LIKE cats and dogs and mice. Real ones. They hit the yard hard, but then rose up and went at it: a leap and a snap of the jaw and a yip and a howl and a cry.

“Mark,” I said, “they are at it once more. I tell you life in the city is much less mad than this. We have to move back.”

“Do not give up, Dave. It will dry out soon.”

“But the poop and the pee in the yard!”

“Good for the soil.”

“A rose is a rose is any old rose, Mark!”

“Not like ours. A type of rose not seen near or far. Do not cry.”

I sat and read a book on the food of Cuba to take my mind off the rain. I also read a tome on Noah and the Ark. Oh, such rain pain!

Mark said, “See? The sun! Bye, dogs. So long, cats. Ciao, mice. No harm done, eh?”

I did not grin, as he did.

“Good for the soil,” I said, “but not the soul.”

“Sour puss. It’s wine time.”

“Make mine gin,” I said.

“You are a dear,” he said and gave me a kiss on the nose.

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