In which the weather is expected to get heavy, man, heavy.

Bread woke me up from a deep sleep this morning. Bread and three dogs and a cat all got in bed with me and wiggled and demanded my attention. I felt like I was surfacing from a still and silent depth into a world of wiggling, giggling, licking fur. I was annoyed to be awake but he came bearing a latte, a mocha he’d made, so that made it all right. I stumbled groggily out of bed, grasped my hot mug of creamy beverage, and followed him downstairs to sit in front of the woodstove.

He regaled me with a story of how he and all the pets had caught and released a bird that had somehow gotten into the house; at one point both Stella and Buz had launched themselves at the poor bird and smacked into each other. Bread admitted to nearly peeing himself it was so funny.

He tells me the Weather Channel wants us to go buy groceries and batteries for the weather radio. We’re to expect tornadic activity this afternoon. “Are we gonna?” I mumbled. “Get groceries and batteries?”

“We went grocery shopping yesterday,” he reminded me. “And we’ve got batteries. But I don’t know where the weather radio is.”

“It’s around here somewhere,” I said, gesturing vaguely and sipping my mocha, eyes barely open.

He laughed. “You should go back to bed,” he said, mussing my hair.

“I was sound asleep,” I mumbled, swaying in the chair.

‘Tornadic,’ I’ll have you know, is one of Bread’s most favorite words. He says it like he’s from Texas, with a silly little drawl. Tohr-NAAH-dic.