The heat hit me like it knew I feared it and it relished my pain.
I could still feel the AC on the back of my arms. It wasn’t too late to retreat. To step back and slip out of my sneakers and my socks and my commitments.
It was a nice thought, but not as nice as dogs. With heavy foot and heavy hand, I stepped forward and shut the door, temporarily severing my connection with all that is good in this world.
Dry grass, dry dirt, dry husks of seaweed on dry gravel. The sun hovered low, gloating over its haul. Light glanced off the timid black cat who hung around my neighbor’s steps. I knelt, concrete digging into my knee, but she shied away. What was left of my life-force leaked out of my rejected palm.
For the two blocks to my client’s house, I favored the balls of my feet out of respect for the blisters visiting my heels, reminding myself every other step August was only three months shy of December. I could almost see the snow piled against the curb. Almost. A sock stiff with dried mud lay abandoned on the side of the road.
I let myself in at the gate, latch closing with a scrape and a clink. The German Shepherd stared from her post in front of the mosquito-netted doorway. She turned and swept through the net. I followed.
Our usual chasing game was short—the dog found herself cornered and surrendered, leaning into my palm. Her fur was thick and satisfying through my fingers. I slipped on the harness and tightened the cord. Connection with goodness restored, we, dog and dog’s humble chaperon, set out together to make the best of a dying summer. Her tail swept all respect for my blisters away, and her tongue snubbed the sun’s evil work. Despite the black coat draped over her back, the dog found Earth interesting and wonderful and full of squirrels, and I couldn’t help catching some of her enthusiasm.
Still. . .
On the way home, the sun quieted, the streetlights flickered on, and a cool breeze snuck in. It was getting dark earlier. Through panting and sprinkler hopping, the dog and I had come to an agreement: The best part of a dying summer was, without a doubt, that it would soon be dead.
This was another really great post. I love how specific you were. You definitely told a story, but also guided the reader as to exactly how the experience came about. For example, favoring the balls of your heels. The relationship you portray with the dog is exceptional. You really made it easy to imagine. “Her tongue snubbed the sun’s evil work” is a great, creative line. I’m not very inclined to pets (I was never allowed to have any so I don’t have much experience with them), but I feel like I just spent a blistering afternoon with a playful and understanding personality in a dog’s body.
Hi Maya,
One of the things that struck me about this post was the way it played with repetition and sonic patterning. The passage that begins, “Dry grass, dry dirt, dry husks of seaweed on dry gravel. The sun hovered low…” captures (at first) a feeling of stasis, but (as the second sentence unfolds) of impending change; the long stretch of the summer and the impending sunset are two units of time that here coincide: both are coming to a close. Really evocative writing. Well done.
Prof Kolb