Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Jack And Juno Did Not Get The Memo

As I returned from town today (Monday), I saw Farmer H tooling towards me on the Gator. I was making the right turn into our driveway, and he was coming from the direction of Buddy's house. Jack and Juno cut into our front yard/field, trailed by Copper Jack. They know that no matter how much fun it is to run along behind Farmer H's Gator...the odds of them getting a treat from him are slim none to none. Their intuition was right, you know, because I had a plate of grease bread waiting for them on the kitchen counter. (Stale bread laid in the skillet of frying hamburger to soak up excess grease so it doesn't pop.)

Silly me. I'd made a big pot of chili, since we'd had cooler weather with all our weekend rain. There for a while, the Dog Days of Summer had really been wearing on me. Temps in the low 90s, with high humidity, made my scalp sweat like Farmer H eating a combo platter of hot wings and Hunan chicken.

Even inside, conditions have not been pleasant. The Devil's Playground was so hot the other day that perspiration shooting from my pores could have misted the vegetables on the produce aisle. Whatcha gonna do, though...it IS The Devil's Playground.

Anyhoo...it looks like the Dog Days of Summer have officially been over for a few weeks, according to my estranged BFF Google. Apparently, Jack and Juno didn't get the memo. They were panting like crazy. I don't think I've seen them this hot in quite a while. Temps were around 75, but the humidity was oppressive. And those fleabags were wearing fur coats!

Jack followed T-Hoe into the garage. He does that sometimes, and trots under A-Cad, and around the old cat house (a pink foam-board structure passed down from my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel when her cat died of old age), sniffing for Dusty, our cat who hates him. She stays outside, though, crouched under the shelves on the side porch, and Jack never finds her in the garage. Which doesn't keep him from hoping.

As I rounded the back of T-Hoe, grocery bags in hand, I saw Jack stretched out on the concrete floor between the cars. He NEVER doesn't that! He was panting so hard that a pool of saliva had formed in front of his chest, and his tongue was flapped out the side of his lower jaw. I'm guessing that the cool floor felt as good to his short-haired belly as the lid of the toilet seat feels on my bare back when I lean back in the midst of changing into my dark basement lair-wear.

I'm shocked that Jack didn't run around for a dip in the fake fish pond, but I guess he was worried about missing a treat.


River said...

I hate seeing animals suffering the heat. If they aren't mine, there's not much I can do except make sure there is water outside for drinking. I remember using a spray bottle to mist Angel on stinking hot days, if we were outside, but mostly we stayed in where the airconditioner was running. He did used to like stretching out on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

Treat time is sacred! HeWho is the giver of treats every morning upon his return from his McDonald's run for his sausage biscuit and my iced coffee. They watch the monitor to see his truck appear and then on to the next screen to watch him open the door. A great howling and barking concert commences and lasts until he doles out the bacon flavored tidbits. Sacred!

Hillbilly Mom said...

The dogs have their cool spots, holes dug in the gravel under the carport where Farmer H parks the Gator (wouldn't want to miss a chance to run along with him in the scorching heat), and in the dirt under a big cedar tree by the driveway. When Farmer H drives down to his cabin to putter around, they enjoy a swim in the creek.

It makes me happy to see them so excited, knowing that I am the reason for it, even if only because I feed them.