Here we are, rapidly approaching the end of the dog days of summer – which, according to the wiki, runs from July 3 to August 11 – I say, here we sit, deep in the heart of Bowser-dom, just as the Zodiac has become firmly entrenched in a cat…

Somebody’s either got a wicked sense of fun… or way too much time on their hands…
Something like Max-imum leisure time, to coin a phrase.
Know what I mean, Buddy?

Not that I place any import on either method of labeling of the days, Scooter.
It’s just that I always wondered where the expression “… raining cats and dogs…” came from.
And the above mentioned conjunction (♪ ♫ … junction, what’s you’re function… ♪ ♫) – ahem, I say, the above convergence seems as likely as not to offer an explanation for that phrase.

The internet’s no help in deciding where it came from.
Lot’s of harebrained, Rocky theories…
No actual hard investigative footwork.

So we just go along, using phrases willy-nilly, without any clue as to why.
Or where they came from.

Ideas like that tend to Tucker me out…

I don’t want to be the kind of person who says things without knowing the where-with-all and the why-for of the words I’m using.
I don’t want my knowledge of the language to get all Rusty.

If I didn’t care about such things, it wouldn’t be such a big deal.
I’d just go along with everybody else.
Just one more clueless baby Boomer.
Never questioning the origins or the actual meanings of the words I use with such impunity.

Maybe become a politician… or a weather person.

But I do care… for some reason.
I want to feel that the words I use convey exactly the right shade of the meaning I have in mind.
I want people to know exactly what I think, even if they couldn’t care less about my opinions.
I don’t want my meaning to sneak up on anyone, like a Bandit in the night.

It’s my coloring book, and I’ll use the colors I want.

Don’t ask me where this level of emotional attachment to a personal accuracy comes from.
I not know…

By the way, one site lists the name Bailey as the number one male dog name.
As well as the number nine female dog name…

Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s confoosed around here.
Imagine the poor dog’s dilemma.

When it’s time for walksies, which bush do you use…?
Squat, or hike…?
Back-scratch, or trot on off as if nothing happened?

But getting back to these here dreary Duke days, pilgrim…

These last couple of weeks around here, sitting in that pile of ice seems like a viable alternative…
So does this one…

Kinda hard to find the motivation to be all witty and charming and…
Well…
Schtuff!

It’s just too danged hot.

So I propose the following course of action.

That’s it.
Go lie in a hammock.
Or sit under a tree.
Or in the shade of a building.

Find a breeze.
Stay cool.

And tell that cat just where he can go stick his furry little head.

After all, Sparky…
It is the DOG days of summer…

 

 

 

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