Dog Days

     August is coming to an end. The forest’s verdant green is dulling to drab. The large bird chorus that awoke me each dawn of May, June, and July is down to a small ensemble. The flower gardens that enlivened my days are fading, the fireflies that illuminated my nights are waning, and the frogs that lulled me to sleep with their mating chants are hushing. While the dog days of summer are already over and gone.

     According to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, in the Northern Hemisphere, the dog days of summer run for forty days. Beginning on July 3 and ending on August 11, they are associated with the hottest time of the year. Although such is not always the case. The dates of the most scorching days vary from year to year. On the other hand, the dog days often do coincide with a period of high temperatures.

     The name, “dog days,” is derived from the Latin “dies caniculares,” which means “days of the dog star.” The dog star referred to is Sirius (aka Alpha Canis Majoris), the brightest star in Earth’s sky, not including the Sun. On a particular summer’s day, right before sunrise and after over two months of invisibility because of being hidden by the sun’s glare, Sirius returns to visibility by seeming to rise in conjunction with the Sun. Because it rises low on the horizon upon its reappearance, the Earth’s atmosphere acts like a prism, splitting the Dog Star’s white light into different colors that appear to flash.

     This rare display is called a heliacal rising. It refers to the first reappearance in the dawn sky of a star or a planet after solar concealment. (Though only the brightest stars and no planets flash with colors.) In ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome, people believed that Sirius’ heliacal rising, so close in proximity to the sun’s, contributed to summer’s heat. In their minds, Sirius and the Sun combined forces to make Earth sizzle.

     They were mistaken. However, I can attest that Sirius’ heliacal rising is a phenomenon worth seeing. Upon ascending to its culmination, the Dog Star is evocative of a bright, twinkly cosmic eye that looks out on the world through a turbulent atmosphere, shows its true colors, gives a knowing wink, and then disappears once again into the greater light of the Sun. A wonder that makes me wonder what Sirius comprehends that I do not.

     When to see Sirius’ heliacal rising is dependent upon the viewer’s latitudinal location. This year in Lightfall Hollow it occurred on August 11, the last dog day of summer. Which confused me at first since, as I have already indicated, in ancient times, Sirius’ heliacal rising kicked off the dog days, rather than being their grand finale, as in my recent experience. But after some further research, I learned this role reversal is due to the wobble in Earth’s rotation. The wobble shifts the stars’ apparent positions and the Sun’s location among them. Consequently, the Dog Star’s climb in cahoots with the Sun now occurs several weeks later than it did in antiquity.

     After Sirius’ heliacal rising, it arises earlier each AM. By winter, Sirius is a prominent evening star. Nowadays, in the Southern Hemisphere, it reaches its highest point in the sky around midnight on New Year’s Eve. Whereas in most of the Northern Hemisphere, it is also visible on New Year’s Eve, but in a much lower position. Nonetheless, all around the globe, Sirius is considered by many as a symbol of new beginnings, as well as a source of inspiration and hope for those new beginnings.

     I am glad the dog days of Alpha Canis Majoris are over. High temperatures are something I do not tolerate well. Yet, in another way, for me personally, I hope the dog days are never over. Because when I wish upon Sirius, whether it be at dawn on a summer’s day or in the dead of a winter’s night, my wish includes that all my days be days with dogs.

     My wish began with a dog named Scamp. Adopted from a local humane society when I was five, Scamp was a female Long-haired Dachshund with soft, shimmering waves of inky black fur, old soul eyes, floppy ears, and a funny little cropped tail. Built broad and low to the ground with short legs, I can still see her scampering along the hollow’s dirt road, kicking up billowing clouds of dust.

     Like every dog I have ever known, Scamp gave me oodles of unconditional love, but turtle hunting was her passion. On practically every visit my family made to the hollow, Scamp would scout out and capture a box or wood turtle and proudly carry it to us as though it were prized game. She was gentle with her prey though. She never harmed or tried to harm a single turtle.

     Be that as it may, I realize turtle hunting is not something one should promote for either dogs or humans. Box and wood turtles have a strong homing instinct. The territory they inhabit is usually between one and two acres. If removed, they will try to return, going so far as to wander about for days in search of home, and if home cannot be found, there is a fifty percent chance the turtle will fail at relocation and die. Not to mention, being seized and detained without consent is a wrongful ordeal for any living being.

     I shall therefore add on my family’s behalf that Scamp was never permitted to stray out of our sight, and we invariably released the kidnapped turtle from her custody to what most probably was still the creature’s neck of the woods. As for Scamp, she was a dog, not a human blessed with a moral compass. We upright humans all know that to forcibly remove vulnerable innocents from their place of refuge and cage them is not only wrong, it is evil. This is why the Fourth Amendment to the United States Constitution exists for the protection of all people on American soil.

     My first experience with evil was because of something that happened to Scamp. It took place when I was probably six years old. Scamp was heavily pregnant at the time. It was summer and hot. We had no air conditioning, and really no need of it since, back in those days in the Allegheny Mountains, heat waves were short lived.

     For Scamp’s comfort, my mother had made her a bed in our cool unfinished cellar.  All was well and good until the day the meter man showed up to read our utility usage for billing purposes. As was typical at that time and place in working class homes, he had let himself in through the cellar’s outside door. But his sudden and unexpected appearance must have startled Scamp, and she began to bark, loud enough to gain my mother and my attention as we sat upstairs in our kitchen eating lunch. As quickly as we could, we left the kitchen and came down the cellar steps. But not quick enough to spare a now cowering and yelping Scamp from being struck repeatedly with the legs of a stepstool. Something we both witnessed before my mother could get to the meter man and with some difficulty, wrestle the stepstool from him.

     My mother had a terrible temper, yet I never saw her more irate than that day as she dealt with the meter man. But, no, she did not strike him with the stepstool. She did not need to. Because my mother was a warrior who was adept at weaponizing words. I do not remember the things she said to the meter man, but I do remember seeing him shrink before her swift, mighty sword of piercing language, and when she was done with him, I remember how he slunk away. If he had had a tail, it would have been between his legs. And though I have no memory of the cutting words my mother said to the meter man that day, I do remember the pointed truth she spoke to me upon his departure. “There is something terribly wrong with a person who would harm the defenseless.”

     She was right. Although, as a mere mortal, it is not my place to declare such vileness unforgivable, I do have the right to state it is inexcusable, and I claim that right. It is also not my place to declare those who do evil are themselves evil, but like my mother, I do have the right to state that there is something terribly wrong with them, and I claim that right.

     Still, I get it. It is one thing to claim rights. It is another to live up to the responsibility rights require. I wonder if I can do it.

     For starters, I need to understand why some practice evil against the defenseless. My top hunch is simple. I believe it is due to a severe lack of self-esteem. That makes sense to me since ours is a culture driven by competition. It strongly and relentlessly advocates, not that each person be their best self, but rather that every individual be better than all others. Which is obviously an impossible goal. In addition, as we do what we are told and endlessly struggle to be the lone best, a whopping amount of needless isolation and loneliness is our booby prize.

     So, from my perspective, we have contrived an environment where feelings of inadequacy and convictions of not being good enough run rampant. And when someone has been mercilessly pushed from a tender age to surpass all others, and they have failed to win the gold, it is not at all surprising to me that they might try to remedy their supposed impotency by harming others further down on the power chain than they assume themselves to be. Like a vampire that sucks blood for its power.

     But in the end, bloodsucking does not work for humans. It is useless and pathetic. All the same, such ruinous villainy will continue to be with us until we rip out the root cause, and the root cause is a cultural value that prioritizes competing against one another over caring for one another. And the most pitiful, heart-shattering thing of all is that it exists and grows ever more monstrous in a country that in so many other ways is beautiful.

     By the way, Scamp not only recovered from her beating, she also gave birth to a litter of healthy puppies, all of whom got good homes and lived happily ever after. Although, for better or for worse, nary a one inherited their mother’s ardor for turtles.

     Since Scamp, her successors have also come to know the hollow, and each has loved it here. And why wouldn’t they? Lightfall Hollow is a canine paradise. Let’s see, besides Scamp, there has been Eric, Ginger, Holly, C-Jay, Anna, and at present, Ember.

     Ember, a Shiba Inu, chubby bunny, and dire wolf, is here with me now. As she so often is when I write. Which is fortunate since she is a talented literary critic.

     Makes no matter that Em cannot read. I share my writings aloud, as she listens attentively and does cute head tilts when she finds something interesting or curious. She has other feedback techniques as well. All of which are constructive and helpful. Albeit, wordless. But that is all right. We understand each other perfectly. 

     C-Jay, Anna, and Ember are the only dogs who have lived with me in the hollow full-time. Having already written about Anna and Ember, as well as just giving Em a booster shot of glorification (lest she gives me the old stink eye), I believe it is high time to tell about the dog days of C-Jay.

     C-Jay was a Welsh Pembroke Corgi. He was built much the same as Scamp, broad-backed and low to the ground with short legs. He had the same funny little cropped tail too. But his ears were upright, pointed, and oversized in comparison to his stubby body. I assume because C-Jay talked with his ears. Meaning he was fluent in a language entirely composed of various ear wiggles and other fancy ear maneuvers. So, being the loquacious type, of course, he was big-eared.

     C-Jay was also slightly wall-eyed, which made him look perpetually puzzled and somewhat goofy. But he had a luxurious fur coat of rich gold and ermine white fit for a king, and on the back of his neck, he had a marking in the shape of star. A symbol, an outward sign of what C-Jay truly was. Like every dog I have owned, or rather, like every dog who has owned me, he was a star, a shining dog star.

     As far as I have been able to gather, C-Jay was born in an Indiana puppy mill and then sold to a pet store on the east coast of Florida. A hurricane came through and demolished the pet store. Afterwards, the surviving animals, including C-Jay, were transferred west across the state to another pet store in Tampa.

     C-Jay must have spent several months in a pet store cage until one day an elderly gentleman of modest means came into the store with his little granddaughter, who immediately fell in love with the forlorn corgi and begged her grandfather to give him a forever home. Well, what grandfather can resist the sweet pleas of his little granddaughter? And, as it so happened, C-Jay was on sale right then at a greatly reduced price. Presumably, because of his wall eyes, the pet store had had enough of him and was anxious to get rid of him.

     Unsurprisingly then, the elderly gentleman bought C-Jay and took him to his home where he lived alone in a trailer park that did not allow pets. While there, C-Jay learned to relieve himself only on newspaper and never to bark.

     It must have taken incredible patience to have taught C-Jay not to bark, and when we met, there were other indicators as well that the elderly gentleman loved C-Jay and wanted what was best for him. Which is why, after a few months of living together, he put an ad in the Tampa Tribune, “Corgi For Sale.”

     That’s where my family and I came in. Our yellow lab, Holly, was getting old. Santa Claus had delivered her as a puppy one Christmas Eve when my son was five, and dog and boy had become deeply attached. When Holly’s time came, I wanted a second dog in our home to help soften the blow, and my son had decided it had to be a corgi. So, by the evening of the same day of the morning we spotted the newspaper ad, we were the proud adoptive family of a regal, paper-trained, barkless, but ear-gabby, wall-eyed, shining star of a corgi dog named C-Jay.

     Immediately, Holly, as elder dog in residence, took it upon herself to teach the newcomer the joys of answering the call of nature in the great outdoors, along with frenzied barking at anything that has the audacity to make even the slightest move there. She also provided expert guidance on how to fetch a tossed ball and then hold fast until it is pried from one’s tightly closed jaw full of razor-sharp teeth, dig up treasured flower beds, ignore all commands until bribed with a treat, refuse to budge until given a proper belly rub, unstuff stuffed toys, steal candy canes from a Christmas tree, breaking vintage ornaments of blown glass in the process, leave scratch and chew marks on doors, floors, and furniture, smear windows with snot and slobber, get overexcited and throw up in front of company right as dinner is about to be served, tear to shreds the pages of cherished books and photo albums, do the same to favorite hats and shoes, drag dirty underwear into the yard for a passerby to find, and, most importantly, feign innocence when accused of any wrongdoing.

     Yep. C-Jay learned a lot from Holly, and they became not only partners in crime, but the closest of friends. To the extent I worried when Holly died, C-Jay would lie down and die with her. But that did not happen. When Holly died, C-Jay mourned, but he also accepted the change and got on with his life, and when a new yellow lab, Anna, became a fellow family member, he became the faithful mentor to her Holly had been to him. 

     A couple of years later, our family faced another difficult change. My husband and I divorced, and both my son and I left what had been our family home in Tampa. My son went off to college in Central Florida, and I moved back to the beloved Allegheny hollow of my girlhood. Upon my ex-husband’s request, my son took C-Jay with him, and I took Anna with me.

     That arrangement lasted about a year, and then in early summer, my son and C-Jay came to the hollow for a visit, each with a year of college under their belt. It was then my son explained to me that caring for a dog is “an enormous responsibility.” (Duh.) “Could C-Jay maybe spend the summer here, and I’ll pick him back up in the fall?” was the question that followed.

     Well, what’s a mother for anyway? Naturally, my answer was yes. Funny thing is though, fall apparently never came that year or any year thereafter during C-Jay’s lifetime. Which got me to finally figure out that C-Jay was on the endless summer plan.

     I did not object. My son when he left C-Jay with me was still, in many ways, a growing boy. Now as a grown man, he is completely on board with the responsibility that goes along with having a dog, and his Cambria is the luckiest of dog stars. 

     Nor did I mind C-Jay living with me for good. Because at the end of the day, C-Jay was the lionheart who stayed by my side when I most needed a lionheart by my side. Though he was not the only one who saved my life during the darkest period of my life, he was without a doubt among those who did.

     According to Welsh folklore, corgis are magical dogs, the loyal companions and trusty steeds of fairies. It is said riding upon their backs is the wee folk’s favorite mode of transport. Some of the tales go so far as to claim fairies created corgis for just such purpose. Which is why they have broad backs, exceptionally thick fur that is insulating and easy to cling to, and are built so low to the ground. Being a fan of folklore and therefore knowing this, I used to whisper in one of C-Jay’s gargantuan ears that I was positive the star on his neck was where the fairies, as they clung to his back, kissed him and then sealed their kisses with a sprinkling of fairy dust that took on the shape of a star. “True story, C-Jay, true story,” I would insist. And, you know, sometimes I think maybe it was.

     Because it has also been asserted fairies send corgis to be the companions and guardians of children in need of comfort and care. Although I was no child even back then, I cannot help but fancy the fairies made an exception in my case and sent me C-Jay.

     Four months after I left Tampa and eight months prior to C-Jay coming to live with me, my ex-husband died an unexpected and violent death. Feeling I had left my husband when he needed me the most, I fell into an abyss of guilt-ridden grief. That pit was so deep I had yet to hit bottom when C-Jay arrived in the hollow, and I was fast losing hope I was ever going to be able to climb up out of that hell.

     During the day, I was able to keep it together enough to hold down a job, but at night I would fall apart and pace my cabin’s floor, sometimes into the wee hours, wailing, yowling, screaming, and making other anguished cries for which no words have been invented.

     Because of the abuse she had suffered as a puppy before our family rescued her, Anna was frightened by my wild hysteria, and she would hide. I was alone with my pain. But then C-Jay came, and he would pace the floor with me. No matter how loud, demented, and scary I got, he never left my side.

     After I had exhausted myself, I would hold C-Jay in my arms, my face buried in his neck, as though I were trying to extinguish his star with my tears. And maybe I was. Because I was at a place where I thought I only deserved darkness.

     It took years, but with the additional help of several human angels who, like C-Jay, stuck by me when I was at my worst, I made the climb up through hell and back into the light. Even so, there are still times when I am haunted by what I refer to as my ghosts of guilt. But ghosts are all they are. They vanish when I am brave enough to look them in the eye.

     C-Jay lived in the hollow for eight years. He grew old, feeble, and lame here, hobbled with arthritis and dysplasia. Yet, he never stopped being my constant companion and steadfast protector. When I would spend hours on end gardening, he would be right with me the whole time, and no matter how often I would tell him to rest and take a nap, he would remain alert, continually scouring our whereabouts for any possible threat.

     Then came a day in April. Believing C-Jay was safely sheltered inside the cabin, I was working on cleaning up some forest debris across the then raging and roaring creek. But somehow that lionheart, maybe with his fairy magic, got out and came looking for me. He never did find me, but when I came back across the creek, I found him. Soaked to the bone, violently shivering, and utterly spent, he had braved all that churning, swirling, crashing, surging water not once, but twice.

     It would be C-Jay’s last act of love and devotion. Ten days later, he died in my arms, my face buried in his neck for the last time, wishing upon that star of his that someday we meet again.

     While dogs may not have a moral compass, they sure do know how to treat people. Just like Scamp, Eric, Ginger, Holly, Anna, and now Ember, C-Jay was the epitome of the way we all should be with one another.

     I am not a scholar of religion. Nor am I particularly religious. But I have read at least some of the sacred texts of seven of the world’s major religions, and I have found within their pages remarkable wisdoms.

     It is even more astounding to me that the greatest of these wisdoms are repeated in each of those different scriptures of different faiths. Granted, not with the same words, but the meaning behind whatever words are used is clearly the same sagacity. Which I find uplifting. The way I see it, as surely as the Dog Star rises, they cannot all be wrong.

     One of those much-repeated wisdoms is what has been known to me since I was a little child as The Golden Rule. A version of it can be found in Judaism’s Tanakh (Leviticus 19:18), as well as in Christianity’s New Testament (Matthew 7:12), Islam’s Hadith (13), Hinduism’s Mahabharata (Book 13, 113:8), Buddhism’s Udanavarga (5:18), Taoism’s T’ai Shang Kan Ying P’ien (Lines 213-218), and Confucianism’s The Analects (15:24).

     Such a simple rule. One could even call it no more than common sense. Although it does have its limitations. Not everyone has the same desires. However, extremely unusual and certainly not well is the person who does not want to be treated with basic decency and humaneness. Which makes The Golden Rule a supreme starting point. And if dogs can abide by it, I can’t help but believe humans can too. That’s my faith, and I’m sticking to it.

     So, I will be up at first light tomorrow. If the heavens cooperate and are clear, I should be able to see the Dog Star rising and hanging low on the southeastern horizon.

     Then I will make my wish. That all my days be days with dogs, and that I, along with all people follow the lead of dogs and live up to our humanity.