The Westie and the Flood
By Gene Aronowitz
While living in Louisville, Kentucky, my ex-wife, Judi, and I had a West Highland White Terrier. Puppy potty training consisted of hitting him with a loosely rolled-up newspaper and simultaneously saying “uh-o,” with the “uh” high and the “o” low. We hated to hit him and were glad when the “uh-o” by itself had the desired effect.
On March 9, 1964, Louisville had a 6.97-inch rainfall. Living in a basement apartment, we feared the worst if the rain continued. In the early morning of March 10., another inch fell, seeming to break the dam. I got up at 4:30 to pee, swiveled out of bed, and stepped into an inch or two of water. Instinctively, I uttered, “uh-o.”. The Westie was standing in our bedroom ankle-deep in water. He pulled his ears back, lowered his tail, diverted his eyes, and slunk away from me, probably realizing that the delusion of grandeur he was then experiencing had a downside.
