What my golden doodle teaches me about the Dog Days of Summer
The dog days of summer have a new meaning now that we have a dog.
The dog days of summer are the hottest days of the year which usually coincide with the rising of Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest star in the night sky.
Growing up, most of us didn’t have air conditioning, not even a window unit. You slept with all the windows open, and a big fan wedged in the window frame. It blew hot air on you and that thin bedsheet that you tucked under your armpit so the sweaty skin on your arm wouldn’t stick to the sweaty skin on your torso.
We got central air for the first time four years ago. And we got a dog two years later. Our goldendoodle McIntyre is teaching me how to savor summer in a whole new way, especially on those hot, humid days when the air feels like a weighted blanket.
Long ago, people believed dogs and people went mad from the heat. McIntyre does the opposite. He gets calmer. Slower.
When Mack is hot, he stops. Abruptly. Just plops down and calls it. Right in the middle of the mulch path or in the driveway or under the shade of the old giant oak in the front yard.
He’s got nowhere to go, nowhere to be.
He’s discovered the joy of a park bench. He loves to park his fluffy butt right there in the middle of one and sprawl out so no one else can sit down, including me. He spreads out those long legs and furry paws and sits as long as I’ll let him. Just watching. Just smelling. Just being.
My Buddha boy possesses a wise old soul, but when the grandkids visit, he’s instant puppy. Playing fetch, chasing them, running between their legs to get the ball, skidding all over the wood floor, his feet flying in the air like a cartoon dog. All three kids will lay down on the dining room floor and pretend to be speed bumps just to see how high he’ll jump over them when I toss a toy past them.
When he’s thirsty, he drinks. Gulps. When I say, “Mack, let’s go for a walk,” he doesn’t head for the door. He heads for his water bowl. Smart dog. He reminds me to hydrate first.
When he has to potty, he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t hold it in all day like humans. He finds a tree, a bush, a fire hydrant, a clump of weeds, a curb, and sprinkles away. He saves enough for four or five stops on every walk, letting the dog world know who’s boss. If he can’t find anything to hit, he squats. He doesn’t care what other dogs think.
Mack has learned to love AC. On those brutally hot humid days, after he does his business outside, he runs back to the house. When I try to get him to sit on the porch in the shade with me, he barks to go inside, runs to his favorite spot, lays down on the floor and presses his entire body against the vent where the cold air blows. Smart dog.
Every time we take him for a walk, someone asks, “What kind of dog is that?” People driving by poke their head out the car window to ask. He’s not curly or apricot colored like we expected a goldendoodle to be. He’s also not the 35 pounds we thought he would be. He’s 55 pounds of fluff. If we didn’t have him groomed regularly, he’d look like a sheep dog.
His puppy days are waning. He’ll be 3 in November. But he’ll forever look like a puppy with that fluffy white face, black ears and white fur speckled with black dots.
What kind of dog is he?
The kind that brings people joy with his dopey grin, tongue hanging out, fur in his eyes and giant puppy paws he offers to shake for a treat.
The kind of dog that lives every day with joy and greets everyone like they’re his favorite people in the entire universe.
The kind of dog that reminds you to slow down and savor summer, to plop down on the planet and feel the Earth below and the air all around and truly take in that connection to a peace that nothing, not even the heat, can diminish.