The coming of the dog days. We are all waiting, waiting for a thing that can hardly be escaped. The warm skies are lowering, bringing with them the layers of sticky water vapor. Sweat refuses to evaporate. It just sits across the skin, collecting unwanted atmosphere.
Even the dog park seems sullen and oppressed. Dogs will just watch the ball roll away under the benches, disinterested. Tongues hung out in surrender and defeat. It is like a prison yard.
Barkley scarcely wants to walk. It brings him very little pleasure. His greatest joy is returning home, running up the stairs to get back inside. His hair sticks to my hands every time I touch him.
I imagine mold developing deep in my camera lenses. I see it growing there in the darkness of my mind. I wonder if there are other things I should be seeing there in the recessed darkness.
There must be other things to consider.
Perhaps in the relief of autumn those other things will come to me.
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