In this, this week of relentless heat and humidity, I’ve had a raging migraine since Sunday night. I woke up today very cautiously – you migrainers know how that looks, like the little kid in the kindergarten pageant who peeps out from between the curtains as the gymnasium is filling up – to ascertain if the headache had indeed dulled down from full on jackhammer let-me-die-now to my-head-is-a-giant-bruise-and-I’ve-never-been-more-grateful.
I’m sitting on my back deck on a perfect summer day; I just noticed it is August 1st, but I knew that because I also noticed some leaves turning at the top of one of the trees in my yard. August is the most depressing month of the year. I know some of you vote for February but you’re wrong: February knows damn well it sucks and has the good grace to bow out early. August pretends it’s still summer even though it sends in licks of cold air earlier and earlier in the evening while still clogging up the noon hour with full on heat like a sonuvabitch. Sure. Book that week up north, plan to meet on the patio, but bring a sweater. The only good part of August is that it leads to September, a month I adore.
July and August are like those siblings they compare in the magazines. They put pictures of Randy Quaid next to Dennis Quaid and say things like “one little genetic blooper, and look at the difference!” and yes it’s mean, but hey, Randy Quaid gets cast emptying the shitter on his RV in Vacation with Chevy Chase and Dennis gets to put his hand up Ellen Barkin’s skirt in The Big Easy and pull off the sexiest sex scene where you don’t see a thing. July and August are like that. One I’d let feel me up; the other I’d let empty the crapper.
I’m babysitting 8 pounds of dog that occasionally bites me. He’s a rescue and he’s darling and sweet expect for those random moments when he turns into a bag of teeth. We’re supposed to know and bribe him with treats into good behavior, but I will never ever get used to the smell of dog treats on my hands so I am rather lapse in my training. I think Alfie and I understand each other, actually. I can’t be bribed with treats either, and the people who love me do so in spite of the fact I bite them occasionally. Alfie came to us with issues and we’ll never know what happened in his first year to warrant the biteyness. I feel for the little bastard; like the man he is named for – my Dad – his early history decided far too much for a handful of liver treats and all the love in the world to put back to rights. Détente is not peace.
So watching Alfie has forced me to sit out back doing nothing, not only to let him take the air but to also put a safe distance between him and four cats who never tire of teaching him a lesson about the superior species, or at least the importance of understanding that whoever has stealth combined with sharp nails wins. Alfie is not stealthy; his nickname is Bo Jangles for the multitude of tags required to keep track of a dog; funny that they call it belling the cat.
We had to give him eyedrops, and we finally settled on a system of putting on those heavy duty gardening gloves, getting a muzzle on him, and then with one holding him, the other would get a drop in. It was hell. It was for his own good. He was instantly back to sweet when it was all over. Kinda like me and August. I’m just gonna put a five-point harness on August and ride it out.