Dad went to Hot ‘Lanta this week on business. Except that it wasn’t hot. While we were sweating a heat index of 110 degrees, he was lolling around (is that the right word, Mom? The one you told Ruthie?) in 67 degree rainy weather. We had a few minutes of rain earlier this week (just enough for Maggie to get muddy) and then the drought came back.
It was so hot here at Hooligan House that our little crooked creek went dry.
Mom says I’m getting off the subject.
It was so hot here that the butterflies wouldn’t come to the butterfly bush. And Maggie didn’t even raise an ear at the squirrel who stole food from the outside bowl. Instead, Maggie went under the deck and dug her own hole. If Dad ever goes under the deck again, he’s gonna be really really mad because there are more Airedale bunkers than I can count under there.
I didn’t go under the deck. I stayed in front of the door and put on my best “I am pitiful” expression until Mom relented and let me back inside the house. If Maggie and Buddy would rather pant outside in that 110 – breathing alert – ozone alert air, let ‘em have at it. I stayed out just long enough to lift my leg and make Mom feel sorry for me.
Who could resist this face?