Bienvenidos, Monsoon Storms

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Utah, left, and Bandida.

How pleasant it is to say “adios” to scorching June.

As possible proof, during this June, my Rio Rico, Arizona suffered through ten consecutive days of torrid highs between 96 and 105F, according to my possibly trusty patio thermometer.

This June’s sun was also so bright and hot that I spent far too much time hibernating indoors with all my blinds pulled down.

But June finally has eased into July, which has become, perhaps, one of my favorite months here. Because the arrival of July means it will bring Monsoon storms.

Like the one I experienced just the other day, whose vivid lightning strokes and following thunderclap nearly scared me silly.

I’d witnessed that first flash of lightning while I was foolishly standing under my metal garage door.

That big flash-n-boom made me flee into my house, where I then looked out to witness still another spectacular downpour. Horizontal rain slapped at my kitchen windows in what meteorologists call a “microburst.”

But what I liked most about that microburst was that it dropped the outside temperature almost twenty degrees in less than ten minutes.

Which caused me to recall a July day when I emigrated here from Connecticut more than a decade ago, when my two dogs and I headed down into the Santa Cruz River Valley for our usual late afternoon walk.

I should have known better, because I’d seen two big storms forming – one off to the northeast and the other off to the southwest.  They were actually heading in opposite directions, believe it or not.

Anyway, they obviously spotted us and decided to have some fun. We’d walked only a half-mile away from the car when they commingled to dump drops that must have weighed at least a half a pound each.

I got soaked to the skin and shivered. How cold Arizona’s monsoon rains can be!

We were pummeled, and, to my credit, I giggled.

My golden retriever Utah, being the water dog he is, was ecstatic.  But my sissy Bandida (a shepherd plus “who-knows-what?” mix) scuttled off ahead to my van.

When I huffed back to my van, I saw that my frightened Bandida had wedged herself under the tailpipe, while Utah had settled into a rapidly forming mud puddle just a few feet from the rear of the van.

I barked at him, and Utah reluctantly arose out of the puddle with a great sucking sound.  When I opened the back door of the van, Bandida leapt in, followed by Utah. His gleefully wagging tail then splattered Bandida and the windows with a film of mud.

And so, in my moist car, I drove my two dogs and me back home – less than a mile away.

And, of course, there was not a drop of rain falling when we drove down the driveway and under those metal doors and into the garage.

But that night, I found myself reaching for an extra blanket.

Which I also did after that other “microburst,” just the other day.

To repeat: Bienvenidos, monsoon storms.

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