Pickle and the Thunderstorm

8 pages · 6 min · ages 5+

The sky outside went grumble, grumble. Pickle's ears went up. Then the whole house shook. BOOM! Pickle zoomed under the sofa so fast that his vest came off and stayed behind on the rug. “It's only a thunderstorm,” said Mom Dog. “It can't come inside.” She looked over at baby Bean, asleep in her basket with her little curl sticking up. “It's Bean's first storm,” said Mom Dog. “She might need a brave big brother tonight.” Pickle wanted to be brave. He really did. He just wanted to be brave from under the sofa.

The sofa was a good hiding place for a small dog. But Pickle was not a small dog. Pickle was a long dog. His head was under the sofa. His middle was under the lamp. And his tail was sticking out from under the coffee table, wagging nervously. Flash! BOOM! Pickle tried the laundry basket instead. His head fitted. His tail did not. Flash! BOOM! He tried Dad's big boot by the door. Only his nose fitted.

In the end, Pickle hid under Dad Dog's newspaper. Dad Dog was sitting in his armchair, reading. He didn't mind. Dad Dog never minded anything. Flash! Pickle squeezed his eyes shut. “Boom,” said Dad Dog calmly, before the boom came. BOOM! went the sky. Pickle peeked out. “How did you know?” “When you see the flash,” said Dad Dog, “you count. One pickle, two pickle, three pickle, until the boom. The more pickles, the further away the storm is.” He turned a page. “Try it.” But Pickle didn't want to count. He wanted the storm to go away.

So Pickle tried barking at it. He ran to the window, stood up as tall as a dachshund can, and barked his biggest bark. “WOOF!” BOOM! said the sky, much bigger. “WOOF WOOF!” BOOM BOOM! Pickle's ears flew straight up in the air, and he ended up under the rug, which is not even a hiding place. “The sky is winning,” said Dad Dog, and he turned another page.

Pickle built a fort instead. He used every cushion in the house, and Grandma's knitted blanket for the roof. It had a door. It had a window. It was a very good fort. Pickle crawled inside, put his chin on his paws, and felt a little bit better. Then the lights went out. Click. Everything was dark. The rain went drum, drum, drum on the window. And somewhere in the dark, a very small voice began to cry. “Waaaaah!” It was Bean.

Pickle's legs wanted to stay in the fort. Pickle's ears wanted to stay in the fort. Even his tail wanted to stay in the fort. But Bean was scared, and Bean was very, very small. So Pickle crawled out. Across the dark rug, past the sofa, all the way to the basket. He climbed in next to Bean, and he flopped both his long ears over his eyes. “Where's Pickle?” he whispered. He flipped his ears up. “Boo!” Bean hiccupped. For a moment, she stopped crying.

Flash! Bean's lip wobbled. Pickle remembered what Dad had said. He held up his paw, and he counted. “One pickle. Two pickle. Three pickle. Four pickle. Five pickle.” BOOM! It sounded a bit smaller. “Five pickles,” said Pickle. “It's going away!” Bean looked at him with big round eyes. So Pickle said “pickle” again, in a very, very silly voice. Bean giggled. Flash! “One pickle, two pickle…” Every time the sky flashed, Bean looked at Pickle instead of the window. And every time, there were more pickles.

“Eight pickles… twelve pickles… twenty pickles…” The booms got softer and softer, until they were only grumbles far, far away. When the lights came back on, Mom Dog and Dad Dog found them both fast asleep in the basket, Pickle curled all the way round his little sister like a sausage round a bun. The next morning, Bean sat up at breakfast and pointed her tiny paw straight at her big brother. “Pi-kle!” she said. It was her very first word. Pickle's tail wagged so hard that his vest came off again.