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Yes, that other Zimmerman — Robert, that is (aka Bob Dylan) — was right.
“ . . . What’ll you do now, my darling young one? . . . It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall!”
This darling young one hasn’t gone anywhere near twelve misty mountains, let alone six crooked highways. And, no, he’s never seen seven sad forests, nor been out in front of a dozen dead oceans.
All this poor pelted pup was doing was foraging behind the dumpster out back of RayBob’s Rib RoundUp in hopes of a few misdiscarded bones that could do with some further gnawing, when — Whoosh! — the skies opened up, and the foretold hard rain surely did fall. He’s now drenched clear to the lining of his matted mutt coat.
But all is not bleak in this castaway canine’s future: I can just make out a kindly maiden aunt proceeding pup-ward with a rain slicker, a chunk of leftover meatloaf, and an I-think-I-just-found-me-a-new-housemate look in her eye.