My name is Nora, and I have a superpower.
I don’t fly, I don’t disappear, no magic tricks — I just feel the rain before it comes.
My human laughs at me.
“Nora, look at the sky! It’s sunny!”
I sniff the air and shake my head. The sun lies sometimes.
The rain doesn’t — it just whispers.
This morning we’re heading to the mountains.
Backpack ready, boots tied, tail wagging.
But as soon as we leave the village, the air changes.
It smells like leaves getting ready for a shower, and soil that’s holding its breath.
I stop.
“Come on, weather girl!” he says.
I turn around. “You go ahead. I’m heading home.”
He sighs and follows me.
Five minutes later — drip, drop, splash.
He stares at the sky, amazed.
I look at him, as if to say: told you so.
At the village café they all know me.
If I’m lying down, people hang their laundry.
If I’m standing, tails stiff — better grab an umbrella.
There’s even a sign by my bowl:
“Today’s Forecast: Ask Nora.”
One day a man arrived with a shiny briefcase and lots of gadgets.
“Let’s see who predicts rain first,” he said proudly.
I sniffed. He fiddled with numbers.
Then came that smell — wet grass, ten minutes early.
I tapped my human’s leg: “It’s time.”
The man checked his instruments. “Impossible! Everything’s stable!”
Then came the thunder.
He froze. I trotted into my dry, cozy bed.
How do I do it? Easy.
Rain always sends a little message before arriving —
a breath of wind, a tiny smell of soil, a cloud stretching its arms.
If you’ve got a good nose, you can read it.
Now my human has learned.
When I stare at the forest in silence, he asks softly, “Raincoat?”
I wag my tail: “You’re getting it.”
Sure, I make mistakes too.
Once I “felt” rain, but it was just the neighbor watering his lawn.
Embarrassing.
Luckily, a real storm came later. Dignity restored.
So if you ask me the secret, it’s this:
the earth speaks — you humans just keep staring at the sky.
And the moral?
Simple as a puddle after sunshine:
if you want to know what’s coming,
don’t look up.
Sniff a little lower.
