Smoke circled my head as elbows flew, tracing the skillet. Stirring. Stirring, round and round until the spaghetti sauce collapsed into submission and began to simmer to doneness. I felt uneasy, all evening.  The air was dense and each child was unusually amiable. Listening, doing what I asked, no need to yell or evil eye them to achieve a purpose.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose slightly. Something was coming.

The sound of my black industrial fan whined from overuse, keeping me cool from the intense outdoor inferno known as summer. All day, we each had dripped with sweat unable to escape the heat, even indoors. Our dogs, Bert and Mardi, permanently laid in front, windblown and calm.

I paced to the sink, eager to keep busy until whatever was going to hit the fan, hit.

The room darkened from our nightly thunderstorm and the crescendo began, as the skies opened with a roar.

Wheels took off with a water gun protecting all from the lightning, followed by his energy equal Bert.  Sprinting from corner to corner shooting the thunder amidst high-pitched barks. Focusing on my bowls and soap, Malcolm, my son in the middle,  became stoic reaching for his Viking helmet and sword. He posted up in the hallway, determined to battle only if lightning came to him.  His loyal subject, Mardi, lumbered beside, staring with complete devotion, moaning in agreement.

As the battle waged and the voices grew more ferocious, my hands moved feverishly to complete dinner before Stewie joined the foray.

With a scream rivaling most battle cries, I closed my eyes for I knew, it was too late. Stewie, armed with blue blankie, ran from brother to brother babbling instructions provided by his commanders. Tiny tennis shoes screeching to narrowly miss corners of tables and walls completed the orchestral climax.

Spraying the stray bubbles down the sides of the sink, I was almost done.  My intervention imminent. Prepared to join and protect my boys from the bodily harm associated with the sudden madness of too good of a day!  One more task… get the noodle water on.

I grabbed my pot, filled it with water, slammed it on the flickering fire, and turned to a silent house.

Not a single bark. No yells.  Just the slow rumble of a dying storm.  Something was off. Everything was off. I moved with caution to the dining room where Wheels, Stewie, and Bert were all nose pressed to the windows, discussing whether victory was theirs.

I pattered to the hallway. No Malcolm. No Mardi. This was it. They were the victims.

Eyes up. I saw the front room was dark with only the primary color glow of Paw Patrol illuminating the shadows. My legs took me to the edge and with a peek, I glimpsed an outline moving vigorously on the couch. My eyes adjusted and feel upon the innocent horror writhing in the darkness.

Malcolm lay on the couch, belly down, arms lifeless at his side, head turned to the TV, entranced, oblivious. Mardi was hunched on his back in a full death grip, humping away and hair flying.

“Noooooo! MARDI, NO!”

“Maaaoom, don’t yell! She is shivering because she is cold. Duh,” Malcolm muttered.

With a swipe of my hand, not only did she back off, but Mardi left me with a very interesting conversation distinguishing the difference between shivering, and domination.

Hey, it could have been worse.