Last night at 6 PM, my neighbors and I broke out wine, fired up the grill, and celebrated the un-apocalypse. Not that I ever for a second thought that Harold Camping was correct (and I am sure he will invent some kind of reason for his erroneous prediction), but at one point I did look over at my dog, who was enjoying the attention of the children in our company, and think that of all the goodness in the earth, should the Lord sweep down to this troubled place to save the good, the perfect, the gentle, and the pure, He would take my dog as one of those souls.
She's still here, so I suppose that the end of the world did not begin... unless of course, she chose to suffer with us. Syd lies behind me raising an eyebrow at me whenever I look away from my keyboard toward her. My Siberian princess with her snow toes, as I call them, and delightful canine smile, rests contentedly in this house full of love and children. Of all the indefinite choices that abound in a given day, the surety of existing in a place where the food bowl magically refills twice a day and where attentive hands tend her--maybe that is a nicer choicer for her.
Syd really doesn't deliberate the apocalypse, anyhow. The rabbit, however, does. I checked him in his house on the deck after supper, and he was still here and furious about it. He said he'd given all his novels away, forgave the dog for being allowed to live full time in the house, and donated his stash of Rabbit Party Snacks (there is such a thing) to the Malvern Rabbit Association--all in advent of the massive supposed-to-happen event. He's back there right now, moaning and counting his losses. I suppose he'll need some kind of therapy, some kind of reassurance. He did say at least the dog didn't make it into heaven either. He could live with that.