By Carrie Classon
It’s the best time of year for dogs.
I don’t have a dog. I have a cat—as of this year. His name is Felix, and he came from Mexico. When we adopted him, he was skinny and timid after living on the streets for two years. Now, he is plump and playful, with a luxurious coat and an entitled attitude that seems to imply that, since he had it rough for a couple of years, he now expects things to operate according to his plans. Things usually do.
But every day on my walk, I see dogs. And this time of year—when the hydrangeas have started to turn pink around the edges and the berries are turning red on the trees—this time of year is called the dog days of summer, and I believe the dogs know it.
I see them in the distance, and I usually catch up, because the dog stops to inspect something, and the owner has to wait while the dog dutifully catches up on all the news that has transpired since he last passed this particular electric pole.
“It’s dogs’ Facebook, you know,” I told a man who was impatiently shifting from one foot to the other while his dog did a close reading of the area beneath the pole.
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s probably been a lot of posts since your last visit.”
The dog finally satisfied himself that he had caught up on all the latest news, lifted his leg, added his contribution to the post and was ready to go.
Even I can tell there’s a lot more to smell this time of year, when it is humid, and things are starting to ripen. An elderly dog appears fixated on a spot beside the sidewalk. Her owner stands motionless beside her.
“You’re not trying to rush her, are you?” I ask.
The owner rolls her eyes. “As if I could.”
I watch the arthritic old dog, smelling something invisible in the grass. Her eyes are cloudy, and I suspect she is hard of hearing, but her nose appears to be working perfectly well.
Yesterday, I saw one of my favorite dogs. He’s a very large, fierce-looking short-haired German shepherd, and he always carries a toy. Yesterday, it was a ball that seemed to be wrapped up in a hand-knitted bright blue sock. It was wagging back and forth as he walked.
“You have a new toy!” I exclaimed.
His two people were with him. His female person sighed. “He always has to bring his toy.”
“But last time I saw him, it was a different toy.”
“He lost that one! He always loses his toy. He has to bring it along, then he gets distracted and he loses it!” The German shepherd’s female person did not sound entirely happy about this. “I am no longer the toy minder!” she added, shooting a glance at her husband. “I think he is a little spoiled!”
I assumed she was talking about the dog.
“That’s not possible,” I said. “Dogs can’t be spoiled.”
The German shepherd and his male person seemed to agree that this was the case, and they went on their way, the blue knitted toy swinging from the happy German shepherd’s mouth.
It is a good time for dogs and it’s a good time for their people, and the people like me, who enjoy their company. Dogs get us to slow down and smell our surroundings. They remind us that this warmth won’t last forever, and maybe it’s a good idea to enjoy it while it lasts.
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