My Dog's Tongue

I own three tongues.

My own, and those that hang from the respective mouths of Zorro and Oliver—my two black, shaggy, one hundred-pound Bernese Mountain Dogs. (I can’t claim the three other tongues in my household—my husband’s, my son’s, my daughter’s—because, I’ve learned, despite my desire for control, their tongues don’t belong to me.)

The dogs’ tongues, though, are mine--evidenced by the amount of time they spend stuck to my foot, or lapping up food and water provided by me. When we brought them home, the children promised the dogs would be theirs—complete with daily walks and poop scooping--but alas, those ownership tasks fell by the wayside within days.

Bernese Mountain Dogs—thank God—are a ‘dry mouth breed.’ Meaning, I suppose, that they don’t drool above 5,000 feet elevation . . . in the winter time . . . in the Swiss Alps, where they were bred to pull dairy carts through the snow.

But in Seattle? At sea level? On a 98-degree day?

Yesterday, Zorro and Oliver were not happy campers. It was hot—hotter than predicted—which was, first of all, oppressive for us northwest heat weenies and second, a problem for Nordic-breed dog owners. In anticipation of an uncomfortable day, we (meaning the three tongues) traveled, first thing, to the off-leash beach on Lake Washington. It wasn’t crowded yet, as it was only 7:30 a.m., but everyone there seemed to have the same goal in mind: cool the beast.

Oliver is nine months old and this was his first foray into the water. Zorro, the older, more experienced dog, waded right in—then started bounding—churning the water so the myriad retrievers’ balls ducked and bobbed in his wake. Oliver stood, toe-high, five inches off the beach.

Bernese Mountain Dogs supposedly don’t like the water. And since we aren't really water people, it's never been an issue. Years past, when we took Zorro to the lake, or to the swimming hole on the Chewuch River, he was interested only in keeping himself comfortable. He doesn't swim, exactly; he levitates. He floats, with his hot belly submerged, until he drifts too far out to stand up. Then he thrashes around, in a land lubber-type panic until his feet touch ground. Until he knows he is safe.

Oliver, I learned today, samples the world with his tongue. The great pink snake lapped at water's edge--and lapped and lapped and lapped and lapped--until I thought he might have a seizure due to water intoxication. Finally, Oliver summoned the courage and followed his tongue into the lake. There, eventually, he emulated Zorro, floating just off shore.

When we got home, Oliver burped a few times, wandered aimlessly around the house. It was hot, and I didn’t think much of it. Then he barfed—a huge gush of water and lake weed—all over my Turkish carpet.

Good thing he has a tongue . . . he slurped it all up.

Well . . . maybe not all of it.

Photo:
my dog's tongue, Oliver, July 11, 2007: Seattle, WA

Sizzlin'

It’s really hot here today—92 degrees is way out of line for Seattle pretty much anytime, but the second week of July? We don’t even consider summer arrived until July 5^th, and even then it’s usually iffy for a couple of weeks. Global warming? A freak of nature? An act of God?

I don’t know, but an air conditioner would be nice. . .

There is no doubt, after spending more than half of my life in the Midwest and in Texas—where April temps can sometimes top 100 degrees—that I’ve become an official northwest heat weenie. I used to play tennis all summer long—outdoors—in Dallas, of all god-awful, hell-inclined climates (Dallas is surrounded on all sides, for hundreds of miles—think the Great Dustbowl—by desert and wasted prairie.) The surface of the tennis court sometimes got so hot it could literally melt the soles of my shoes. I had to keep my feet moving, or I might not make it home for supper.

But now? After nearly 20 years in Seattle? I can’t even run around Green Lake on a 75 degree day without whining. Five years ago, I remember a day in August the mercury reached 98. When I got up to go to work the next morning, the entire neighborhood was sleeping, nearly nude, on lawns and front porches.

On a day like today, people flock to the mall, or the library, or museums—anywhere they might find an air conditioner. The newspaper reported today that only 7.5% of Seattle homes have air conditioning, and duh! Why is that? Because the average daily temperature here is only 52 degrees!

Anyway, I digress. Instead of air conditioning, today I sought out the mountains. A little elevation would surely lend a cooling touch to the second hottest day of the year (tomorrow is supposed to be worse—96, and maybe higher.)

Hmmmm . . . Maybe I got a little relief, but I don’t know for sure. It was still hot enough to melt the chocolate bar I had stowed so intelligently against the bottle of ice water tucked deep in my pack.

But at any rate, I was out of the city. And that’s worth a lot. Clear skies, vistas of Monte Cristo and Glacier Peaks. An aquamarine lake, snow still clinging to the cliffs above; frigid water tumbling into a neon green meadow. Never mind the thermostat in my living room, which is north facing and shaded all day, read 88 degrees when I got home.

We have a fan, and the cooling breezes off Puget Sound. And really, we should be able to tolerate a couple of hot days (we could be in Las Vegas, where it hit 112 today.) We could—oops!

I gotta go. My computer is overheating . . .

Photos:
sun and smoke, july, 2006; Winthrop, WA
daniel, kristin, and mike in hart lake; High Divide Trail; Olympic National Park, WA