The temperature’s supposed to hit 101 degrees today — hot enough to barbecue a cat on a hot tin roof. We have reached the dog days of summer.
To us cats, it’s no surprise steamy days that make you regret being furry have a canine association. It’s August and summer is going to the dogs. Hurricanes are popping up on both coasts, the stock market is making a suicide plunge, and man’s inhumanity to man is on every page of the newspaper.
Dogs thrive on misery like this. You can beat ’em, tie ’em to a tree all day with no water bowl, throw sticks off cliffs and tell them to go fetch. They love it and keep coming back for more.
Besides, calling such miserable weather “Cat Days” would be ludicrous and nonsensical.
But if there were such a thing as “Cat Days,” they’d be in the spring when you want to dash outside and chase butterflies, or lie in sweet grass so green and lush you’re tempted to pet it. Or they’d be on the cusp between fall and winter when you can curl up in front of a cozy fire with great book and a hot toddy. (Actually, I’d curl up on Karen’s good book and spill her hot toddy.)
As for this pad-scorching melt-down that’s good for nothing but raising the price of shade, the dogs can have it.