Summertime is hard on the small dog. Never mind being abandoned on a regular basis while her Graven Food Idols go gallivanting in boats -- it's hot like a roaring brick oven in Florida for at least four straight months.
We fondly refer to her as a fat-head, but truth be told, the small dog DOES rock a thermally efficient physique. Her chesty form and densely packed cranium act like a pressure cooker.
She's an outstanding panter -- it's an artform for her -- but venting heat is an uphill battle.
She may have energy to start with, but it flags. She begins to pokey-pete. Instead of trotting along at the farthest forward reach of her leash, she dawdles. As the pace slows, she makes frequent but nominal pee-breaks.
Between bouts of lolly-gagging, she takes to gazing importantly into the middle distance. Eventually, she holds quite still except for one shaking leg. She is a paragon of canine civil disobedience who resembles -- just a bit -- a runty little Elvis impersonator.
When simply calling her name does not work, we find ourselves clapping or pssting for her attention, tjingling her leash, chivvying her along, and tugging on the harness (the same escalating techniques used by police forces facing nonviolent resistance).
Where she tanks up on water before staggering to her bed.
If history holds true, she'll spend the next six hours snoring mightily, recovering from her exertions. Unless she hears the faint jingle of car-keys, the merest whiff of anything yummy, or if someone uses the word "cheese" in conversation. Then she'll bounce up, all ears and expectation.