I was patrolling the back yard, making sure no infidels had intruded upon my lush carpet of weeds interspersed with grass. The fence line marks my domain, and a good ayatollah must be ever-vigilant about re-asserting his territorial claims. Who knows what that scissor-tail flycatcher is up to -- is he just passing through, or are his motives more sinister? Either way, a gruff bark will send him fluttering on his way. As I sniffed the perimeter, a loud thunderclap raised my hackles. I felt a cool drop on my back, and then another. Then came the deluge. Before I could even scratch the door to make it magically open, my fur was drenched. My tail, heavy with the accursed rainwater, sank almost to the concrete.
Allah, we converse daily. Couldn't you have given me some warning?