The first day of summer starts today, Saturday June 21, and my twelve-year-old basset hound, Rolle, and one-year-old chow mix, Ellie, are already refusing to go outside in the sweltering heat. The real dog days of summer are still ahead of us, and they are already complaining. Just last week, Ellie, quite the little fireball, refused to go jogging with me! I’m speculating, since she can’t speak, it’s because of the heat. After all, her ancestors came from the Himalayas.
Since we adopted her this past January, I have taken her with me on my morning jogs, so she is very familiar with my routine. Not to sound like a doting parent, but I’m certain the word ‘jog’ and ‘walk’ are in her vocabulary. She knows that a walk is something she does in the evening with her elderly 86 (in dog years) year-old brother, Rolle, and with her Dad—who considers Wii Sports a strenuous workout. Now, when I head out for my mid-morning run with my sunglasses, walkman and keys, she just looks at me and lays very content by the sofa.
After I return home, complaining to them about the scorching heat and how they are very lucky to be inside the nice, cool house, Rolle typically decides he’s ready for me to let him outside so he can catch some mid morning rays—he has always enjoyed sunbathing. This usually lasts for about five minutes, until he’s roasted, and then he demands for me to let him back into the house so he can cool down and repeat the whole process over & over & over again!
Rolle catching some rays on the Isle of Palms, South Carolina