Heat.

It was 115 degrees outside when it was time to walk the boys and they started up almost as soon as they got outside.

JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH, it’s motherfucking HOT out here, Cutter said.

Whew, Tug said.

A coupla tourons passing by on their way to more vacation fun glared at me like I was the one cussin’. I pointed at Cutter and Tug and they scowled at me.

It must be 200 degrees out here, Cutter said and Tug murmured, maybe 300.

It’s not that hot, I said.

Remind me why you do this to us every day? Cutter said sternly, looking back over his shoulder at me.

Tug just plodded along, looking forlorn.

‘Cause you guys have to poop and I can’t get you to poop in the toilet, I said.

Hmmm. What’s a toilet? Cutter said, panting theatrically.

Already anticipating it, waiting for it, I said, the big white thing you drink out of.

Cutter stopped dead in his tracks. Oh, for god’s sake, you want me to poop in my water dish?? he exclaimed. That’s just sick, he said. Isn’t there somebody I can call and report this to?

You don’t have fingers, I reminded him.

Fuck. It really sucks being a dog, he said.

Tug stopped suddenly and hunched and pushed.

Whew, he said, can we go home now?

3 responses to “Heat.

  1. I love your dogs.

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