watching the lightning show beyond my bedroom window, sills rattling with each raucous peal of thunder.

Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler burrowing in beneath the four-poster bed. Bare feet eventually padding in. J. and C. cozying up with us. And I'd find myself drifting off to sleep, not in my ranch house, but in a berth on a sailing ship, rocking, swaying back and forth, on a surging purple sea.

But not tonight.

Instead, I worry about getting my daughter's white horse to school for Show and Tell on Friday in sparkling clean condition. (If you have, or ever have had a white horse, you know what I mean.)

It's not like I have a horse sized shower stall for a quick equine bath in the cold, or a cushy box stall with cedar chips, or slinky horse pajamas to wrap her up in against everything potentially dirty. My horses live in a dirt pasture with a big loafing shed.

She's not a big white bed sheet I can just toss into the Kenmore.

This is not a job for Chlorox.

And I've known the Andalusian horse long enough to know that if there's rain tonight, she will wallow in the mud in the morning. On her side. In the sun. Hay belly sticking up like a bump. Legs all askew. Emitting long, languorous groans. Eyes closed. Head lolled back. Mane and tail caked with mud. Then she'll roll over onto her back, legs jutting almost straight up into the air, massaging her spine, wriggling back and forth and back and forth, grinding that dirt in there real good before flopping down onto her other side. Rest a little while. Moan. Repeat. Several times.

Caprichosa will no longer look like a horse, but a big, exotic H-A-W-G. (Sus scrofa.)

And even though I noticed the Fire Danger High and No Campfires signs posted in the Pecos tonight, I can't help this thought, no matter how ridiculous, selfish, or self-centered, from zipping around my mind ...

OH ... please oh please oh please oh please oh PLEASE, don't rain.

At least not tonight.