Day of The Dog

Every person I pass on the street is dragging and in practical meltdown, their heads are in a permanent state of hang, eyes never meeting and mouths lacking the energy to curve upward in a smile, arms no longer swinging with enthusiasm, but instead limp by their sides like wet noodles.

Their clothes are a misrepresentation of who they usually are and how they dress. They’re headed to work, so certain clothing requirements are expected, but they’re so close to the edge of the dress code with their see-through linens and loose fitting attire, nothing that touches, clings or increases warmth, and no dark, heavy fabric that seems to boil the lining of the skin.

People sitting on park benches are no longer feeding the birds or enjoying the scenery; instead their heads are bent as if in prayer, and their shoulders slumped in near defeat. They no longer wave when others pass by - instead their arms are dangling in resignation that strength will never return. They no longer speak with greetings, for their vocal cords are on strike from the constant damp, dripping liquid that forms every morning and afternoon as heat meets humidity.

Even the lawns have resigned themselves to feast or famine with what nature provides as moisture, so dry for weeks that the grass and flowers are wilted and beginning to turn the colors of fall, but then, the rain comes. And it comes and comes, so much that everything is squishingly-saturated, bird baths are overflowing, rain meters have reached their capacity for measurement and even the animals, who just days ago were dragging with their tongues touching the ground, are now running for shelter and dry dirt to lay lie on.

But the people, they are reveling in the rain, so thankful for an excuse to stay indoors, away from the smoldering heat and anything that requires that they spend time in the dog days of summer. I have heard the saying “dog days of summer” all of my life, but I have never really known what that technically meant. So I googled it, and this is what I found: The dog days continued through the early 19th century to be perceived as foreboding a time of evil, wherein "the Sea boiled, the Wine turned sour, Dogs grew mad, and all other creatures became languid; causing to man, among other diseases, burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies." That my friends, is the most accurate explanation I have ever heard for the month of August.

I’ll admit I was ready for fall as early as May, because we sure didn’t have much of a spring this year, other than April and what it brings with it: blooming flowers, green-leaved trees, the fresh smells of dirt and growth – I could really care less if we only had one season, not necessarily winter, but surely not summer either.  Maybe if instead, we just had a season of cool mornings, warm afternoons, and cool, breezy evenings that run you off the front porch come sundown.

But I’m patient, and I hear September calling my name.