Skid, Skid, Skid, Clunk, Thud...July 17, 1999

Skid, Skid, Skid, Clunk, Thud...July 17, 1999

To say that it has been hot these last few days would be a gross understatement. With the humidex well into the 40's (that is in the 100's for my neighbours south of the border), I do believe that Hell hath finally arrived on Earth.I have felt an overwhelming desire to repent, just for the hell of it. I am also petitioning the local municipality to change the name of this quaint little 'Burb to Hades.

It is the kind of heat and humidity that makes one break out into sweat just by getting out of bed in the morning, leaving sweat dampened sheets behind. They have been the kind of days that take one's breath away, not from any sense of splendor, but because there is little fresh air to breathe, for none is circulating. It is just hanging there, heavy and mist filled, weighing the body that dares traverse through it down, and clinging to it in the process. It soaks one from the outside in and from the inside out it seems. Perspiration that has accumulated in the eyebrows drips into one's eyes. It cascades down one's back, neck, and sides. It has been a week where the sky appears varying shades of gray, like rain filled clouds, where one gasps a sigh of relief while looking to the horizon, thinking "Finally...it rains. Blessed be". With tremendous disappointment, one then quickly realizes that it is merely haze, and darts back inside to assuage oneself in front of the fan or air conditioner, begging the spirits for the only respite that can be had from these hot, airless, sweat-soaked, hazy, conditions: a thunder storm. It has been the kind of weather, where to one's amazement, one sees elderly folk strolling down the lane in pants, long sleeves, a coat or sweater, and of course, a hat, and ponders the misinformation as to the actual cause of their high rate of heat stroke, for it certainly cannot be age.

Alas, it has been the kind of heat wave when, whether through mercy or punishment, for me or for them (I have yet to decide), I keep Reekie and Moo inside. This is, of course, with the exception of allowing them out to do their business. Not that this makes a modicum of difference to fourteen week old Moo. One consequence that is blatnatly clear is that we are all suffering from cabin fever. Anyone who has ever reared a puppy will know and empathize that cabin fever for dogs is merely a synonym for...

..trouble making.

I arose this morning, yawned, scratched, wiped sweat from my brow, and cursed another blistering day. Then, fan in hand, I let the dogs out, and upon their return, plunked myself in front of the computer. I was so pleased to have received encouraging email from a reader, that my mind started wandering, my day was made. Nothing could marr it. It was a splended surprise with which to begin the day.

Then, out of the blue, the hair on the back of my neck rose. I got a chill, which, considering the horrid conditions, was something to take notice of. I instantenously had a thought...Moo. The only rational thought lately to make of these feelings. "She is up to something", I thought. I believe this message was from a spirit guide, because no sooner had I experienced the sensation, and thought the thought, that I heard...

Skid...skid...skid...clunk...thud.

"Moo", I said to myself with resignation and validation.

"Moo", I said to her with irritation and consternation.

Everyone must know what the noise of a skidding puppy sliding full speed into the wall sounds like. I surely do.

Recall, if you will, that a few days ago I purchased a few items for pleasure and protection in anticipation of a visit with my beloved at the end of this month. For the full ditty, go here. Being somewhat absent minded, I left the "gear" on my bureau so as not to forget them when I pack. Being somewhat more absent minded, I also did not take into consideration how tall Moo is getting. Being greatly absent minded, I did not take into consideration her cabin fever, which would be burgeoning after a few days being indoors. She got into the gear.

The item of gear with which she partook the most delight begins with "K" and ends with "Y". Figure it out from there. I left the office, and stood at the opposite end of the hallway from her impact. She stared at me with those big, brown puppy-dog eyes that seem to always say "I didn't do it". Suffice it to say that her coat was more than shiny and glistening, it was slicked back and saturated more than grandpa's hair on Sunday. It not only adorned her coat, it coated her paws, such that she had no hope of traction whatsoever on my non-carpeted hallway. I broke out in chase in my haste to prevent her from spreading any more, only to discover that my non-carpeted hallway had magically transformed into a luge course. As I flew by, I noticed more of the escaped gear dabbed here and slathered there on the love seat I keep in the hall, as well as the empty container of gear itself over which I almost tripped, and made a mental note of what needed to be attended to once I cleaned her. Lucky for me, the end of the hallway where Moo impacted is right beside the door to the bathroom. Traction or not, she had no hope.

I scooped her up precariously, ignoring her kisses of atonement, and plunked her into the bathtub. My only sense of revindication came in knowing that this was her first bath. I was going to make it a good one. As she looked at me beechingly, this wet, greasy, shivering little waif with big brown puppy dog eyes, I was torn between offering her cooing comfort or breaking out in rites of exorcism.

The struggle was brief, and comfort won out, as it always will when it comes to my pups. I kissed her little puppy head, the only dry part of her body. I was reciprocated with a Moo slurp right on the tip of my nose. In the aftermath, I thanked the spirits for labels of "water-based", "water-soluable", "non-irrating", "non-toxic", and let us not forget, "second only to nature".

Dog days of summer...indeed.

...Blessed Be