The Dog Days Of Summer.

It’s August. Too hot to look up the origin of “dog days of summer,” but no matter. I do a quick Internet search anyway. The word “disambiguation” on Wikipedia drives me away. So on to writing.

I happen to know this lovely lady of a Yellow Lab. Just looking at her regal pose sans heavy panting and strings of drool – well, you’d think there was nothing better to do in life than to sniff Eau de Carolina Jessamine wafting from a dry mulberry stump.

But peek on the other side of the photographer's sun-dappled cloth and you can see the effects of the dog days. A brown crunchy yard. Two cat-embossed birdbaths bone-dry. And carcasses of shriveled hibiscus flowers strewn like pink-and-white cigars.

I can’t remember a dog who lamented the dog days of summer, though.