Another Sunday

What's this?

This strange sensation on my face, my arms, my legs?

Oh. Aaaaaah. It's a cool breeze. It's a break. It's heaven.

I do prefer heat to cold. I hate winter, so I do not whine about hot weather. Here lately? Those bawdy, naughty weather gods have been messin' with us.

A solid week - or has it been two - of heat indices around a hundred and ten. (A hunderd n teyin in the local lingo. It sounds hotter, doesn't it?) We've been getting up at 5:00 so that walks are done by 7:30. Even then, we come back with tongues dragging, sweat that won't stop even after a cold shower. A tepid shower; it's been so hot that the water in the pipes doesn't resemble cold. The radio admonishes, "Take extra care with your elderly and your pets." (Yur eeldurlay n yur peeyits. It becomes a beautifully cadenced song, not just a sentence.)

I opened the breezeway door this morning, expecting the saunic blast. (I made saunic up: pertaining or relating to a sauna. I like it.) Even the dogs stopped their mad dash mid zoom to their morning potty. They noticed the difference. And then they got silly.

Sunday mornings project the magic that is this southern river town. We pass another dog walker and wave. "Mornin'". I turn to avoid the goddam feral cat up the street, but Sammy saw him. Sam gets a blueberry treat for being quiet. Sshhhh, Sam. Look at me. Good boy.

The city is a sleeping child. The quiet beauty. There is not an engine running. We see one person a block away looking under his car. It's too early for summer church. Even the River is alone. Not a single boat interrupts him on his way. Everywhere downtown are flowering beds, planned and planted by the city horticulturist. She was laid off because of the economic hard times, and I feel guilty admiring her handiwork. The petunias don't worry about it. They share their spicy fragrance with us.

It's only eighty. I planned our route so we walk into the breeze on the way home. Swede William tenses every considerable muscle in his perfect body. For a moment, it's better than the marble statues in Florence - he is living art - and then I see the Stupid City Squirrel. It runs toward us, the one with half a tail. Maybe he seeks symmetry. To have his stupid head bitten off to match the stupid stump on his butt. No dog barks. They dance, but they are quiet.

Blueberry treats all around.

Maybe my sweet dogs are enjoying the peace of the place, too. I'll take them to the Kennel Club for a run today. They can bark and buck and fly and bask and chase and dodge and be dogs.

Enjoy your quiet Sunday.

hug your hounds