Dog Days of Summer

If one cannot be sustained by smaller loyalties then will one be capable of solidarity with the whole of humanity? – Timothy Radcliffe, OP

We have reached the dog days of summer. I know, because the dog across the street has become more vocal.

I used to think the dog days of summer were named after the cranky attitude dogs get when the weather is hot and sultry, but the fact is they are so named because of a star – Sirius. Sirius is the nose of the dog in the constellation Canis Major, and in late July or early August it rises just before the sun, so the Greeks referred to this time of year as the Dog Days of Summer.

Interesting, eh?

But still, I think there is some truth to the crankiness of dog theory I’ve been hounded with all these years. The weather is hot; the sun rises and wakes me up earlier than I want to really get up; the house is hot and stuffy when I want to trundle off to bed, so falling to sleep is a trifle more difficult. My temper isn’t quite as calm, cool, and collected as it normally is the rest of the year, so the egg shells upon which the world must walk are more readily found underfoot.

And as it turns out, I’m not the only one who feels that way.

The other day my wife and I had to run into Butte to take care of some business. We dropped off some parts to a copier drum kit I couldn’t figure how to put together, and left them to be installed by the friendly photocopier guru located across from the Courthouse, and while he did his incantations and wand-work, Barb and I went down to a local coffee house for some tasty tea and scones.

When we got back to the shop a bit later, Steve (the repairman) admitted the reason I hadn’t been able to figure out how to make the parts fit was they had sent me the wrong parts to begin with. Ach du lieber! But hey, stuff happens, and so that didn’t bother me at all. I’d been wanting to take in the sights and sounds of beautiful downtown (or is it uptown?) Butte for some time, anyway.

What got my goat, though, was Barb started spinning around the shop like a whirling dervish and complaining something was biting her. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what it might be, but I got her to stop her twirling for a moment and as I pulled back the collar on her shirt, out popped a yellow-jacket about the size of your basic, run-of-the-mill, AH-64 Apache Attack helicopter (fully armed).

Now, I must admit my identification of the varmint in question may not be completely accurate as I smacked it down with an astonishingly quick lightning slap of my hand, simultaneously pulverizing it underfoot with every ounce of my being.

Never-the-less, I knew it wasn’t a honey bee, for it had stung Barb several times and hadn’t lost its stinger. Furthermore, it is the sworn duty of honey bees to protect a hive’s honey; attacking my honey would have been an unthinkable act of treachery for an Apis Apini.

Anyway, I cannot imagine why a yellow-jacket, wasp, or hornet would have attacked the love my life unless it was due to a crankiness induced by the dog days of summer.

We thanked Steve for his efforts, and he promised to order the correct part and get it to me as quickly as possible. “Copy that,” I said, and we got back into the car and drove around Butte for a few minutes to see if the stings would produce an allergic reaction requiring medical attention. It didn’t, so we returned home, leaving Butte and the Vespula’s corpse in our rearview mirror.

I have come to realize there is no such thing as a boring day in Montana, unless it is a stinger doing the boring. Every day brings something new and unusual to see, hear, do, or experience. Sometimes those experiences are painful, but they are mostly opportunities to experience life in its fullness.

God is good in this, our sometimes cranky valley – even in the dog days of summer – and for that, I am “Siriusly” thankful.