Heat wags

The first day of summer coincided with a heat wave that had undulated between the low 70s and the high 90s for three days. 

I hate this weather. I’ve made no secret of it. I wear long pants and long sleeves. I wear a hat and slather any exposed skin in sunscreen I call “liquid” clothes. If only someone made SPF 3000 … I’d buy it even though I know it would have the truth-in-advertizing veracity of the wide-legged pants I bought just because they fit AND they claimed to be a Size 2. 

I tried to put it out of my mind. I felt I was so successful in this endeavor – thanks to the miracle of the elderly, barely-functioning window units my husband has dutifully schlepped up and down the stairs, and in and out of windows, twice annually – that the wall of air that roared in startled me.

The dog, I believe, shares my ability to suspend disbelief. At least, that’s what I thought as she hopped up and down, barking at the door until I opened it and the stifling air rushed inside. 

For an instant, she froze. If the air was this hot, how hot would the patio stones be? Maybe her bladder could wait a little while longer. 

She waits for me to roll out the red beach towel - the one that has been hanging on the fence since last year. Its terry nap flattened and faded from being out in the elements all that time. Once unfurled, she trots across it to the grass underneath the yard’s only shade tree. I close the door behind her, but she watches me through the window. Staring me down the way she does when other people pet her … reminding me with her eyes this is how she likes it and maybe I should learn a little something. 

She doesn’t break our gaze as she relieves herself. This is not a walk. It doesn’t absolve me of the routine she’s come to expect under normal circumstances. The one in which she can take an inventory of the varmints multiplying between the property no matter the season.  Who am I to hinder her from chasing away the birds I’ve tried to identify through the songs they sing with the magic of Merlin.

As I wait, a survey of the birds of the northeast appear: American Robin, House Wren, Chimney Swift, Goldfinch, Red Tailed Hawk. Canada Goose? I marvel as they twitter away, seemingly unperturbed by the stickiness of the air. 

A cardinal lands near the terry carpet, she dips her head and drinks from a puddle I was beginning to think was a mirage. I don’t remember the last time it rained.

The dog stays right where she is. She doesn’t give chase.

It occurs to me that maybe she hasn’t seen the bird. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of me where I’m standing near the door.

She is not taking any chances. And I don’t test her. It wouldn’t be nice to hide from her as if she’d have to stay outside in this furnace of a world until I got my coffee.

Why are you drinking coffee in this heat, human? Are you crazy?

I am. But she is not. When she trots back inside she heads straight for her water bowl and, finding it wanting for something, trots over to the refrigerator and looks at me and the ice dispenser.

She takes two cubes and wags her tail.