Sailing To Oblivium: July 18, 2017

They call them “the dog days of summer.” I always wondered why. The dogs don’t seem to like them anymore than I do. Interspecies commonality?

Down here in the south, the heat is partnered with the humidity, doubling the misery. A walk to the garden and back makes your shirt wet. Further effort than that can make you curse your parents for birthing you in this location.

On the worst of days, you don’t even see any mad dogs or Englishmen out and about.

The old folks used to describe it in typical earthy phrases like “It’s hotter than hell’s pepper patch.”

A shipmate from Southern Missouri used the analogy of a pregnant prostitute in church, but I would never stoop so low as to repeat it. Those wild and obscene days ended long ago. Sort of.

I just say that it’s hotter than Donald Trump at a “truth or dare” party.

Why do we call them “dog days?” A trip to a favorite website, Wonderopolis, enlightens.

The ancient Romans called the hottest, most humid days of summer “diēs caniculārēs" or “dog days." The name came about because they associated the hottest days of summer with the star Sirius. Sirius was known as the “Dog Star" because it was the brightest star in the constellation Canis Major (Large Dog). Sirius also happens to be the brightest star in the night sky.

Sirius is so bright that the ancient Romans thought it radiated extra heat toward Earth. During the summer, when Sirius rises and sets with the Sun, they thought Sirius added heat to the Sun's heat to cause hotter summer temperatures.

Those old Romans were a real hoot, weren’t they?

When exactly are dog days? The Old Farmer's Almanac lists the traditional timing as being July 3 until August 11. Since any questioning of the efficacy of that revered source would threaten my marriage, we’ll accept it. Thus, we are smack dab in the middle of them.

I do know one thing. Having raised a couple of fine rows of corn in our garden, I decided, post-harvest, to chop down the stalks and feed them to a friend’s cows. Took me about an hour. As I finished, without a dry thread of clothing on me, I couldn’t help but thinking about the book Twelve Years a Slave.

In it, Solomon Northup, a free black man from upstate New York, is abducted and sold into slavery. He tells about being forced to along with other slaves, to cut sugar cane from daylight to dark on a Louisiana plantation. I try but I can’t imagine it.

I just hope that our plan to “make America great again,” doesn’t refer to those dog days of a different type.

I don't know. They seem happy enough.