Charlie and Finn in the Rain

Charlie stood at the window. The sky was gray. The puddles were growing.

"Can we go out?" Charlie asked.

Mom looked at the rain. She looked at Charlie. She looked at Finn, who was already sitting by the door with his leash in his mouth.

"Boots," Mom said. "Raincoat. Five minutes."

Charlie pulled on the yellow raincoat. The shiny one. The one that went swish-swish-swish when you walked. Charlie pulled on the big red boots. Finn's tail went thump, thump, thump on the floor.

They stepped outside.

The rain came down soft and steady, like the sky was whispering shhhhhhh over and over. It landed on Charlie's hood. It landed on Finn's nose. Finn sneezed.

Then Finn looked up at Charlie with his big brown eyes, and his tail started going again — not thump, thump, thump anymore. Now it was going thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap.

Finn thought the rain was wonderful.

They walked to the end of the driveway. There was a puddle there. A big one. A really, truly, very big one.

Charlie stepped around it, careful, careful.

Finn walked straight through the middle.

SPLOSH.

Muddy water went up. Muddy water came down. Muddy water landed on Charlie's shiny yellow raincoat.

"Finn!" Charlie said.

Finn wagged harder.

They turned the corner to the park. The swings were empty. The slide was wet and shiny. The whole park belonged to just them, and the rain kept whispering shhhhhhh.

Finn found a stick. It was a perfect stick — not too big, not too small, just right for carrying around and feeling proud about. He pranced through the wet grass with it, head held high.

Then he dropped it at Charlie's feet.

Charlie picked it up and threw it.

Finn flew.

His ears flapped. His paws kicked up mud. He grabbed that stick and came running back so fast he couldn't stop — he slid right into Charlie's legs and they both went DOWN.

Right into the mud.

Charlie sat there. In the mud. Rain on face. Mud on boots. Mud on the yellow raincoat that was not so yellow anymore.

Finn sat in Charlie's lap. He was not a small dog, but he didn't know that. He had mud on his ears. Mud on his belly. He still had the stick in his mouth.

His tail went thwap-thwap-thwap in the puddle beside them.

Charlie looked at Finn. Finn looked at Charlie.

And something happened in Charlie's chest. Something warm and bubbly, like a giggle getting bigger and bigger and bigger until —

Charlie laughed.

Not a little laugh. A big, loud, tip-your-head-back kind of laugh. The kind that makes your belly shake. Finn dropped the stick and licked the rain right off Charlie's chin.

"BLEH! Finn!"

More laughing. More licking. More thwap-thwap-thwap.

They walked home slow. The rain was lighter now. Charlie's boots went squish-squish-squish. The yellow raincoat was brown and yellow and brown. Finn's fur was pointing in every direction, and he smelled like wet dog and mud and adventure.

Mom opened the door.

She looked at Charlie. She looked at Finn. She looked at the mud.

"Well," she said.

"We need a bath," Charlie said.

"You BOTH need a bath," Mom said.

Finn walked right past her into the house, tail still going, and shook his whole body — mud and water flying everywhere, on the walls, on the floor, on Mom's clean white socks.

"FINN!"

Charlie laughed so hard no sound came out.

Mom got the towels — the big fluffy blue ones. She wrapped one around Charlie. She wrapped one around Finn. They sat together on the bathroom floor, warm and tired, while the rain tapped on the window like it wanted to come in too.

Finn put his chin on Charlie's knee.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Charlie's hand rested on Finn's warm, muddy head.

Outside, the rain whispered shhhhhhh.