The Dog Days originally were the days when Sirius rose just before or at the same time as the sun (heliacal rising), which is no longer true, owing toprecession of the equinoxes. The Romans sacrificed a red dog in April to appease the rage of Sirius, believing that the star was the cause of the hot, sultry weather.
Dog Days were popularly believed to be an evil time "the Sea boiled, the Wine turned sour, Dogs grew mad, and all other creatures became languid; causing to man, among other diseases, burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies." according to Brady’s Clavis Calendaria, 1813."
But if you're a dog owner, everyday, despite the weather or calendar, is a dog day.
Remember the 1981 movie On Golden Pond? Here are some of it's accolades:
- Academy Award for Best Actor (Henry Fonda, winner)
- Academy Award for Best Actress (Katharine Hepburn, winner)
- Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay (Ernest Thompson, winner)
- Academy Award for Best Picture (nominee)
- Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress (Jane Fonda, nominee)
I was in college, studying literature, when Ernest Thompson won the award for best screenplay. Now, more than 30 years later, I don't really remember the film, except that I liked it, but I do remember Thompson. He shocked the world by using the F word in his acceptance speech at the academy awards.
We talked about his slip the next day in one of my literature classes. According to my professor, a writer can't ever pretend to be something he/she is not. Their core values and character will shine through their works.
What does this have to do with the dog days of summer? Not much, but I do think it's interesting that I like dogs, I'm a dog owner, and I include pets in almost all of my stories. That's not to say that if I ever win an academy award I'll get on the stage and talk about my dog, but if you like stories and you like dogs, chances are you'll might like my books.
Here are a few canine excerpts from my books. (I also threw in cat just for fun.) If you're a writer, please feel free to share your favorite pet passage, Be sure to include your buy link and a link to your website.
Wyeth’s tail began to beat on the oak floorboards when a child peeked around a chair to look at him.
“Would you like to pet him?” I asked.
The golden hair six-year old nodded, but she stayed on the far side of the plastic chair. She sucked on her index finger and watched Wyeth. Her wide, blue eyes stared at him then looked at me. She wanted to step from behind the chair, but Wyeth intimidated her. She wore a red, white and blue sailor dress with a large chocolate milk stain down the front. The child removed her finger. “He’s a really, really big dog,” she said.
Her mother at the next table looked up from her crossword puzzle book and smiled at me, making me her conspirator in child care.
I ruffled Wyeth’s ears. “Yes, he is, but he’s very friendly.”
She looked at us with wide blue eyes. “He’s really ugly. Did you want an ugly dog?”
That was a very good question. Most puppies, like babies, are cute, even the ugly ones, and then you feed it, clean up after it, train it, fall in love with it, then keep on loving it even after it’s grown ugly. “I guess I do now,” I replied. He always looked and smelled better after a bath and trim, but lately I’d been too preoccupied to groom Wyeth. It’d been weeks since he’d had a bath. I realized I’d make a terrible mother.
“I have a poodle named Princess,” the little girl told me. “She wears a pink coat.”
A thick marine layer blew in from the beach and reminded Deirdre of her smoky dream. She couldn’t see, but she knew where the oak trees, solid and massive, stood. Her leg hit warm fur. She fell with a bump, her hands smashing onto the grass. A large, wet snout attacked. Coyotes, she thought, curling into a ball. She opened one eye to see a massive snout approaching. A dog, a giant dog, but not a coyote. He placed a hamburger sized patty paw on her back as if to keep her down so he could clean her with his tongue.
“Leave me alone!” she yelled. The dog snuffled through her hair as she rolled onto her hands and knees. Shaking the creature off, she stood, but the animal rose on his back feet and placed his front paws on her shoulders. She had a vision of Beauty and the Beast dancing in the moonlight. She shook him off.
“You’re lucky I like monsters, mammoths, or whatever you are.” She reached for his dog tag, trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid his tongue. Grabbing his collar, she rotated his tags. “You’re the first dancing partner I’ve had in months,” she read the tag, “Pricilla.” She eyed the dog. He panted before her, looking like a friendly bear. “Pricilla, really? Why not Thor or Zeus?”
“Because she’s my partner—not yours.” A deep voice spoke in the fog.
Blair jumped and landed hard on the grass, her hands breaking her fall. She stood in time to see the kitten tear into the library through the wide open door.
At least it’s a smart cat, Blair thought as she went after it. She tried to brush the mud and leaves off her skirt, then slipped off her filthy shoes and soaking sweater and left them on the front porch.
Standing in the doorway, searching, she called, “Here kitty, kitty.” A tail, gray and rat-like stuck out from under a rack of books. Blair lunged toward the bookcase, and her stocking feet went out from under her.
Finding herself on the wooden floor, she turned to see the kitten watching her with one blue and one brown eye. Blair placed one hand in front for the cat to plainly see, and snaked her other hand behind the creature. The cat tried to dart away, but Blair grabbed it.Rolling onto her back she held the squirming, skinny kitten in an outstretched hand in the air above her face. She considered the small, gray, rodent-like animal. “I’ll call you either Mouchard or Rat-Fink after my friend, Drake,” she told the cat.