Dog Days

It’s the time of year when heat and humidity lumber through the atmosphere like a pair of sumo wrestlers, crushing everything and everyone beneath their pudgy, sweaty feet. The air has the consistency of molasses, and any activity outside a climate-controlled building is torture by smothering. Everything moves slower. Even the clocks seem to run at half speed.

Of course, the more unpleasant it is to get out and do things, the more things need doing. The yard needs mowing, my lovely wife needs two tons of educational materials moved into her classroom, both boys are headed off to college, and I have to depart for the even-more-delightfully-humid Florida panhandle in a few days to set up my piece of another globe-spanning Army exercise. Hooah.

My daughter also has a summer project for her honors English course that requires my assistance (“Compare and contrast George Orwell’s novel, ‘Animal Farm’ with the Russian Revolution”), but that doesn’t really count, since it’s a totally indoor activity, and anything Russian makes the air feel a little cooler, at least on the subconscious level. Perhaps it’s time to pull out that Yakov Smirnov DVD.

I find myself at the end of each day in the same posture as my dogs, prone on the most readily-available cushy surface, hoping somebody will give me a popsicle.

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