Where Dogs Sweat
Copyright 2015 Keith Blenman
For my grandparents
Daystar sighed at a rock in Granny’s garden and said, “She never lets me do anything.”
The rock, typical of its own behavior, said nothing and remained motionless. Not that it would’ve contributed to the conversation had it been able. In fact, had the rock been sentient, it likely would’ve done its best to ignore the human child. Having ages ago been a part of a nice, quiet glacial formation, it wouldn’t have cared much for the manic frittering of children. Instead it likely would’ve preferred to sleep all day as it baked in the sun. At night, it would’ve done its best to ignore the lilacs as they gossiped over the latest social developments in the local ant colony. Mostly the rock would’ve sighed over how its entire world had melted away and after several centuries left it a mere decoration amongst the retaining wall bricks. It certainly wouldn’t have cared for the past thirty years of its existence. And it certainly wouldn’t have paid any bother to a chubby, six year old boy on the hottest day of summer.
But as the rock wasn’t sentient and remained entirely uncommunicative, Daystar had to imagine it a different personality. One that clung to his every word, agreed with every complaint, and even enjoyed games where it played the role of lever for the secret entrance into a wizard’s cavern. Of course, today it would’ve agreed with Daystar that he should at least be allowed to turn on the sprinkler.
Inside the house, Grandpa half listened to Granny ramble over the boy in the back yard. “He’s talking to the garden again,” he heard her say but didn’t care to respond. Instead he went on reading the newspaper at the kitchen table.
“I tried talking to Shelly about him,” she went on, turning her attention to lunch. “I told her twice now. I said, ‘Honey, cute as he may be, boys his age shouldn’t be talking to gardens, chairs, and silverware.’ But she says her and Eric think he’s a perfectly good child. Like those kids know how to be parents anyhow.”
“Can you believe this,” Grandpa said as he slapped the newspaper. “They say gasoline is going up to four dollars next month. Four dollars!”
Granny went on as she smeared a thick layer or mayonnaise onto a slice of potato bread. She’d been married so long, she didn’t even have to ask Grandpa how he’d take his sandwich. At a glance, she knew she’d done it right. Heavy on the turkey. Heavy on the mayo. Heavy on everything, right down to the big, fat pickle. Served on a paper plate with two handfuls of Ruffles and a Miller. For the past fifteen years now it had been the same lunch every Tuesday and Thursday. She barely even noticed herself making it.
Of course, such ritualistic preparation freed her mind for other trains of thought. All of which she rattled off freely to her husband. “It’s not until the fourth one when you really start getting the hang of it.”
“You know what it is, don’t you?” Grandpa said, slapping the newspaper against the table. “It’s all them greedy Iraqis! They have the oil and they charge all the billions they want for it. No consideration for the working American, you know. They just think we have everything so they can just keep on knocking up the prices. As if we wouldn’t notice.”
“Maybe it’s all those cartoons the boy watches,” Granny said as she poured the beer into a plastic cup and threw away the bottle.
“Those turban-heads don’t even love Jesus,” Grandpa concluded as his lunch was served along with his afternoon vitamins. “Hey, he said. “Did you give me too many pills?”
Granny rolled her eyes. “Oh, just take them, you big baby.”
Outside, Daystar continued talking to the rock while sitting in what little shade the yard's only tree provided. “Do you ever think about volcanoes?” he asked.
The rock maintained its silence. Again, had it been sentient, it could’ve illustrated to the human on what it was like to exist in a time where there had been nothing but volcanoes, lava, and gasses spewing throughout the continents. And how those were the quiet days. The peaceful days. And in its earthly opinion, it couldn't recall a time until these most recent years that it had it been so bothered by noise and busyness. Such as that of children.
Daystar imagined a more agreeable response from the rock and nodded. “Me too,” he said, wiping sweat off his brow. “I think there’s one here. I just never seen it before.”
A moment later, he heard the kitchen window screech open. “Daystar,” Granny called. “Come inside for lunch.”
Daystar didn’t waste time. He wasn't hungry but the idea of being inside with the air conditioning sounded, in his terms, a bazillion-trillion kinds of wonderful.
As for the rock, it quite expectedly remained still.
Inside, Daystar was ordered to present his hands over the sink. “They’re filthy,” Granny insisted, wiping his fingers off with a raggedy washcloth, the same seldom cleaned one she'd used to wash dishes every day. “I swear your mother doesn’t know the first thing about teaching boys to stay clean. Of course, she did marry your father. That says quite a bit right there, doesn’t it?”
Daystar looked up at Granny as she squeezed his tiny fingers and grinded the cloth against his hands. “Okay,” he said to whatever she was talking about. Not that he was a complete dullard. Like any semi-intelligent child he could feel the negativity in Granny’s tone. Even if he didn’t know what she was talking about, he could tell she was judging his parents over something. Exactly what remained in question.
Across the room, Grandpa smacked the newspaper against the table again. “Listen to this, Molly,” he chuckled. “It seems some scientist thinks Earth is getting so hot that dogs won’t be able to keep themselves cool by just panting. He thinks in the next fifteen generations, they’re actually going to sweat!”
Granny rolled her eyes. She continued to dig the washcloth into Daystar’s hands as she said, “Oh, my.” She then put a hand on the back of Daystar’s head and started wiping the washcloth around his face. “I don’t like that,” she went on. “Not at all. The whole neighborhood will smell like wet dog!”
Daystar squirmed and let out a several disgruntled moans as the washcloth smeared over his lips. He tried to breathe in through his nose, but the sudden wetness clogged his nostrils. None of them could predict it at the time, but it was because of moments like this that in twenty years time the smell of mildew would always make him think fondly of his grandparent's home.
“I wouldn’t lose sleep over it,” Grandpa said. “You can teach a hundred generations of dogs to sit and stay. But I’ve never heard of man teaching a single dog to sweat. There’s no way they can teach it to all the dogs. It’s like asking one to build a ceiling fan,” he laughed. “Never happen.”
On a semi-related note, within the past seven months, eighteen dogs of assorted breeds had considered the concept of fans and how to assemble them. Two of which (three months apart and on opposite ends of the continent) even came up with the idea of having three settings and oscillation. Of course, the most fascinating part of this trivia is that all eighteen dogs lived in houses that already had oscillating fans. Not a single one of them was able to work out that their invention was directly in front of them, blowing air at their faces.
An even lesser known bit of trivia, even in nature, is that the original concept for air conditioning was brainstormed into existence by a group of stray cats. Although they did get as far as the beginnings of the assembly process, the project was eventually abandoned due to their design featuring several long tubes and a shiny spring that were inevitably thought of as toys, batted at, and lost in the nearest gutter.
Not that Granny would ever know this. Nor would she be around long enough to smell the air in a world where dogs sweat. But in terms of
what man accepts about the nature of animals around him, it was at least worth pointing out.
Daystar, for one, liked the idea of dogs sweating. In particular, the idea of wet dogs shaking themselves dry. Of course, he also had the bias of wanting to run in the sprinkler.
“There,” Granny said, having finished sopping his face. “All better. Now, what do you say to me making you a nice pitcher of Kool-Aid?”
Daystar’s eyes ignited. If there was one joy in Granny babysitting, it was that she always had red Kool-Aid. Sometimes, even orange or blue. At home, Mom and Dad would always make him drink water, orange juice, and milk. Kool-Aid was practically a myth among the drinks in his parent’s
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