Fires in California. Floods in the Midwest. Four-plus dollars a gallon at the gas pump.

Do you ever have a day when you wake up and think today would be a good day to hide under the porch with the dogs?

I do. In fact, I probably have those days more often than I ought to admit. Today, for sure, was a hide-under-the-porch-with-the-dogs kind of day.

For the record, I don't have a porch. Not one you could hide under. I don't even have a dog.

Growing up, I had stray mutts of every description. They were not really mine, but a borrowed dog is about as good as an owned one. You never really own a dog. Mostly it owns you.

Strays would show up at our door (never the front, only the back, as if they knew they were beggars) and stay for as long as I kept tossing them scraps. Or until they got hit by a truck, or run off by another stray.

You can learn a lot about life from watching stray dogs.

First, if you're a stray, you don't come around easily. You take your time about sizing up situations and people, deciding if they're to be trusted, or not.

Second, you don't worry about things beyond your reach. If you're really hungry, you're not too proud to eat scraps.

Third, if something itches, you scratch it.

Fourth, you never bite the hand that feeds you, especially one that is lonely for a dog.

Fifth, on the worst days, the "dog days" of summer, you go crawl under a porch in the shade, turn around in a circle, chasing your tail, then settle down in the dust to hide out and wait for things to cool off.

Finally, most of all, you do what you must to survive; you never give up. And you pray that others will do the same.

Do dogs pray? Maybe not all of them. But strays do, for sure.

This morning, I woke up thinking of friends whose homes are in the path of wildfires; readers whose lives have been devastated by flooding; people who've lost their jobs and can't afford to pay their mortgage, or even buy their next tank of gas.

I am a black-belt worrier. I started wandering from room to room, mumbling to myself, worrying about things far beyond my reach. And the more I worried, the less I felt like doing anything but worry.

That's what worry does. It eats you up and makes you feel there's nothing you can do.

But I've been worrying for so long that I've finally learned how to nip it in the bud. Sometimes.

It's simple. When I feel as if there's nothing I can do, I force myself to do something. When I find myself hiding under the porch, I crawl out and get to work. And as I work, I pray.

This morning, for instance, I scrubbed toilets -- hard -- and prayed for family and friends.

Next I made the bed, loaded the dishwasher, oiled the kitchen table and prayed for all the people who are suffering, all the friends I've yet to meet.

Then I climbed on a rowing machine (one of the countless contraptions I've collected and seldom use) and rowed my way across several oceans, praying for every last worrisome thing I could possibly think of.

By the time I finished, I was too tired to worry anymore.

So I sat down at the computer to check my e-mail and read a note that included this advice from the Bible, Matthew 6:34: "Do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

Hope I can remember that tomorrow when I wake up and my back is too sore to move.

Maybe I should get a dog?

(Contact Sharon Randall at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077 or randallbay@earthlink.net.)