The Dog Days of Summer

Woof it’s hot!

After living in country where a winter’s day can last seven-and-half minutes, I know a thing or two about seasonally adjusted depression. Sad to say. But until I moved to Bat City, I never thought there was a flip side to the UK’s winter blues…

As I pointed out in a previous post (Sun, Sun, Sun… Here We Come! ), the moment the Texas sun crests nearby skyscrapers, our nearest star is Hell bent on killing me.

Within an hour, “outside” is only slightly more hospitable than Mars. To the point where even the thought of walking from a parked car to an air-conditioned enclave is literally dreadful.

There are cooler pizza ovens than my Audi baking in the summer sun. Hamburgers are fried more slowly than my hands should I grasp the leather-clad crushed crown steering wheel before Max Air cools my Austrian automotive inferno.

Faced with the prospect of spontaneous combustion, leaving my condo requires the same level of commitment demonstrated by Sir Robert Scott’s team during their ill-fated Antarctic expedition.

“I am just going outside and may be some time" I tell Alexa.

Amazon delivery ameliorates some of my thermo-nuclear seasonally adjusted depression, connecting me to the outside world via stuff I don’t really need, produced somewhere… out there.

Reading also offers a modicum of relief. Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon was particularly helpful – a novel that explores the horrors of Stalin’s purges. The central character is tried and, ultimately, executed. If that buoys my mental state, what does that tell you?

It tells me that there’s no escaping cabin fever. You just gotta roll with it. On the positive side, my condo is whistle clean. On the negative side, I spend a good part of my day cleaning it.

Growing up in “if you don’t like the weather wait a minute” New England, I coveted the sun, sea, surf and sex lifestyle portrayed in the movie Endless Summer.

Since moving to The Lone Star State, the counterculture documentary’s two-word title hits my ears like the four words shouted in another famous flick from the same era: “Oh no! It’s Godzilla!”

As depressing as Texas’ endless summer is for me, there are two groups who have it worse than me: Land Rover drivers and full-time dog owners.

Sitting outside the Intelligentsia coffee shop before daybreak, I watched two LuLu lemons emerge from a Range Rover.

“Is it reliable?” I asked the dynamic duo, masking the rhetorical nature of my question with mock interest.

“No,” the blue one replied.

I had a vision of the young lady in question pulling to the side of a lonesome road, her SUV stuttering to a halt, its leotard-clad captain feeling the cool air emerging from the vents quickly lose its chill.

Unaware that she’ll be dead within the hour, a lifeless hulk of Lycra lying next to an empty Yerba Mate bottle in a pool of sweat.

Caveat siccitatibus.

Dogs have no such ability to “beware of dehydration.” Man’s best friend is at the mercy of their owner.

Walking a dog down Austin’s mean streets in this heat makes about as much sense as playing a round of golf in scuba gear.

Unless and until Anthony Robbins devises a canine fire-walking course – Unleash the Bull Terrier Within! – it’s cruel and thankfully unusual punishment. Walking a dog on hot pavement, I mean. Scuba golf is a sanctioned sport.

To be fair, some owners protect their dog’s feet from the searing cement with doggie booties - the only way to avoid puppy paw fricassee during the heat of the day (i.e., all day).

I’m not saying the booties are as much about style as pet ped protection, but I did see a poodle wearing Manolo Blahniks. Bitch.

The sensible folk in my building walk their furry friend (dog, not a person identifying as one) early in the morning and late at night. And use the condo’s shaded pooparium in between.

Crash Bandicoot - a Dallas Cowboys tight end in a previous life - refuses to step foot on the artificial turf. At least the indoor route through the parking garage gives him some exercise. Why he ignores the signs advising dogs not to pee on the columns is a question best left to finer minds than mine.

‘Cause my mind is fried (a solar not chemical side effect).

Crash is oblivious of my sun-stroked mental state, determined as he is to use me to keep himself amused during his interminable interment. Who knew demand barking isn’t just for strip clubs?

Like all Texans, Crash Bandicoot and I look forward to the fall, when the sun may – I repeat may – ease-off its campaign to imprison those it can’t kill.

Actually, a dog’s concept of the future doesn’t mirror our own. As far as Crash is concerned, one second it’s hell, the next it’s heaven.

If only our dog days of summer were like the dog’s days of summer. That would be cool. Metaphorically speaking.