On the logic of dogs frightened out of their wits

It's one of those Perth things, it hardly ever rains here, so when it does, it's quite an event.

There have been summer storms over the last week.  Proper storms with thunder and lightning.

The dogs have been beside themselves.  Trembling and clinging to the reinventors' ankles at considerable risk of tripping, kicking and stepping on paws.

During the day, the reinventors have been out doing what they do, and the dogs have been deputised to take care of the house, chooks and cat.  Ordinarily this arrangement works in a most tickety-boo manner. 

Except for the storms. 

Day One, the Practical Reinventor got home to find one dog missing, but only a whistle away, and the other home but sheepish and with great scrapes on either side of its face.

The red dog, being skinnier, had gotten though the gap at the bottom of the gate.  The white dog musts have gotten painfully caught and wrenched itself free.  If there was blood, the rain washed it all away.

Nasty.

The next day, the white dog was still in the yard, and there was no sign of the red dog.  Then the phone rang.  The red dog had managed to get out, cross two major roads and a nice bloke drinking at the pub about a kilometre away had caught her and phoned us. 

Embarrassing.

The third day of storms, D, our lovely 95-year-old neighbour had intercepted both dogs heading for parts unknown and corralled them in her yard.

Again, embarrassing, but at least there was no further canine injury.  You have to wonder why a dog would, when scared, leave its nice, safe yard and house, where it knows its people will be, and run off to... somewhere.

There's a bloke been to look at the gate and what might be done about it.

Fortunately the storms seem to have passed.

It probably won't rain again til May now.