June 29, 2005
Hot under the collar over dog days
By Corky
Guest Commentary
Technically, the dog days of summer are still a few weeks away. Just try telling that to a walking fur coat in spontaneous combustion Fahrenheit conditions.
Summer is only nine days old and already I've grown weary of the hot enough for ya' platitudes. So if you value your clich‚ existence, let sleeping dogs lie and leave the leash on the hook in the hallway. If that sounds harsh, too bad. I'm the very definition of a female dog in 90 degree heat these days.
For the obtuse, Webster's can connect the dots between bitartrate and bite.
Humidity. Heat index. Call it what you want, but this hot dog is cooked. When your normal body temperature is 101.5 degrees you're already nearing the boiling point. Despite all this heat, dogs don't sweat warm weather - we pant. While our evaporation cooling system is fairly efficient, I'd gladly take air conditioned BTUs over tongue slobber.
So you'll have to forgive me if I unleash some hot under the collar issues:
- Another birthday came and went with only a rawhide bone of observance. I'm like 49 in Lorne Green years and they still expect me to jump up into the family jalopy.
- Speaking of cars, what gives with the minivan? I'm nearing my midlife crisis years and I'm stuck in a cargo hold with Winnie the Pooh and Elmo. Instead of a topless Corvette, I've got vent windows.
- Canine cleanliness usually involves a lick and a promise. I supply the former, my humans the latter. However, what I need right now is a head to paw pet-dicure. Unfortunately, I will once again suffer the indignation of a kiddie pool bath. As a final insult, they'll turn the hose on me like I'm an anarchist outside a World Trade Organization summit.
- Once upon a time, I provided insightful guest commentary. This year my New Year's resolutions column got bumped in favor of a dissertation on potty training. I need a new press agent or opposable thumbs so I can type.
While I'd like to blame a lot of these rants on the stifling heat, it's more temper than temperature. Truth be told, I've written this entire column in climate controlled comfort. It seems my humans sprang for something called central air last fall. So I might be the Jayson Blair of canine columnists, but I'm comfortable in my skin - very comfortable.
Hey, I'll even keep up the man's best friend pretense if the mudroom linoleum stays a consistent 74 degrees. Just let sleeping dogs lie and don't touch the thermostat.