Dog days

Gaylen Hansen, Dog and Magpie, 1989

Gaylen Hansen, Dog and Magpie, 1989

Magpie: Cawk it’s hot! Even my feathers are sweating. I’m just going to keel over and die from this heat.

Dog: Yawn. It’s the dog days of summer.

Magpie: That’s quite odd. The dog days? I think not.

Dog: Scratch. Scratch.  Yep.

Magpie: Hmm. .  . (stands on one leg) Now that you mention it, I recall they are more commonly called the “Magpie days of summer.” Yes. Yes. I know I’ve heard that somewhere before. . .oh, my friend cawed to me about it last week. (Whew! I could fry an egg on my beak it’s so hot!) Of course, it’s the Magpie days.

Dog: Actually, I’m right on this. Definitely the dog days.

Magpie: Oh doggone it (stamps claw)– is everything always about you?

Dog: Hey, I didn’t have anything to do with it – it’s an ancient Greek thing. Blamed the “dog star” Sirius. Got too close to the sun. Didn’t you see my post about Roman dog sacrifice on my FB page?

Magpie: No, FB’ s just annoying. Seriously, you have a star and a whole couple months of summer named after you? (cocks head) For all your lying around and tired panting? Lazybone’s like. Really there’s no reason to name something after a bunch of drooling, lazy good-for-nothing’s. I’m calling them the #Magpie day’s of summer. Tweeting it right now. Magpies bring #good luck. What do dogs bring? Only #fleas.

Dog: And dead birds.

Magpie: Gasp. Cawk! Flutter.

Dog: It’s the dog days Magpie, just google it.

Magpie: Nope, don’t like google watching me. If you ask me, the “Magpie days of summer” sounds better.

Dog: Lacks alliteration. (Stands to leave)  It’s too damn hot to squawk about it.

Magpie: Certainly is not. (ruffles feathers, cranes neck high) Really this is too unfair. . .


Lily Martine Baxter, Bloom Painting (ponderosa), courtesy of the artist

Lily Martine Baxter, Bloom Painting (ponderosa), courtesy of the artist

Missing flowers today, caught in the gaping maw of August here. The ravage heat wastes any precious bloom this time of year. Water is just a wish to save all but desert plants from crusty brown demise.

I think of leaving to a lushlovely, rainy place when the sun takes permanent throne. When 100 degrees is ho-hum and only 50 or more days of  white-hot 100°+ leaves the weather person dry mouthed and sweating for synonyms for hot. Or hotter. Or hottest.  But the clouds hinted at rain this weekend, some wayward drops sprinkled. Plash. A soft pliff here and there. Smell of overheated earth. This painting by Lily Martine Baxter captures the moment.

Where between the sun and the rain, blossoms a fresh cluster of color. The heavens cooled briefly and then the color springs and drizzles. Lavender rivulets and saffron trickles. A color front – precipitation blooming.  Open-mouthed to catch a drop or perhaps a petal.