Quit doggin' me, man!

It's kind of ironic that it's the "Dog Days" issue of our dear local paper, The Current, because here I sit at the playground in Arnegard, North Dakota, in trouble with my outlaw dog, Laddy, again.

Laddy is like a hairy stinky family member. He eats just as much as the kids and needs just as much exercise, or maybe more. We take him everywhere we go, without really thinking about it. He just does what we do.....except sleep inside on a pillow.

I was told already once, by the grounds keeper of the playground, that dogs are off limits. He was really nice about it, but for obvious (poopy) reasons, dogs need to stay home. But, for some reason, I always forget that when we leave the camper and head out on our neighborhood walks. Maybe it's because he was faithfully sitting beside us all afternoon waiting for a break, too. Maybe it's because I forget he's even there. But, really and truly, I don't mean to break the rules.

If only the lawn mowing sprinkler guy knew that Laddy had already deposited his prize in that vacant lot on main street, while we purposely looked the other way, maybe he wouldn't be giving me that look out of the corner of his eye, that I am trying to ignore.

It's a good thing it's cloudy and breezy because here Laddy lays, next to my park bench, panting with his lolling drooling huge tongue, covered in mass amounts of Border Collie hair. He looks like a cross between a sheep and a lion. He smells like a cross between a pig and goat. (Oh, I so miss the bathing rituals at the Salmon River: Throw the stick. Fetch the stick. Drop the stick. Quick, Grab him! Soap him up with Bronner's Peppermint soap. Throw the stick. Fetch the stick. Lather, rinse, repeat.)

I am grounded to this park bench in an effort to make Lad blend into the bushes and become less obvious. But, it's a great excuse for a lazy summer Mama to write in her journal and make the big sisters push the 2 year old in the swing.

I gave little Tenesee an "underdog" the first time we came to this playground, two months ago. That was all it took. She's an adrenaline junky, for sure. But, somewhere between afternoon outings, she forgot the proper term and is now sitting in the swing demanding, in her high pitched voice, "GIVE ME A PUSHY DOG!!"

I'm assuming that this alone will scare the playground nazi man away so that I can let Laddy loose, to run a muck between picnic tables and sniff the scent left behind from all of the other rogue dogs in the neighborhood. (You KNOW they all come here to pee.)

In an effort to change the subject, I must say, I have never known what "Dog Days" really meant. I figured it was just the hot time where we all wanted to lay around our yards like our pets do. I'm not totally wrong, as it does refer to the hottest days of the year. But it also means the Dog Star, Sirius, is rising. I don't know much about stars and I don't know the actual dates, and yes, I Googled this information. And, when I read up on something that I'm not 100% interested in, only the most shocking highlights stick with me as I scan the page. I'm sure that in this same issue you will receive the informational side of this historical summer season and all of it's dogma, so I will stick to my opinion. It's what I do best. No one can prove my opinion wrong, because it's mine.

Here it is: Did you know that the Romans actually SACRIFICED a brown dog at the beginning of the season of the Sirius star? Gross. What was with all the sacrifice, anyway? How does killing something really stop evil? Kind of an oxymoron. Now if the dog walked up and barked out his desire to sacrifice his hairy life for the greater good of society, I suppose it would be noble. But to demand a life. That's just weird. No wonder Rome fell. They were mean to their pets.

I've decided that in North Dakota this season should be called the "Raining like Cats and Dog Days." The other night, when the tornado warning was issued and my camper got pounded with buckets of rain, wind, and heavenly chaos, Laddy was probably wishing that Dog Days meant that I would let him inside. He was praying that it meant he could come and lay in my bed with me, and the three girls that jumped in at the first crack of monstrous thunder and flash of mad lightning, while we sang, "Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens..." Hey, he's just lucky I'm not a Roman and he's black and white, instead of brown. Life is good, and he has no idea!

Well, finally! The lawn man is getting into his truck to leave. With one last glance at me and my fugitive animal, he is pulling away, knowing that I am about to break the law. What he won't see won't hurt him.

"Okay, Laddy, you good boy, get ahead! Go chase the girls and please don't pee on anything. Find a puddle to lay in, go on! I won't tell on you."

I think his new middle name will be Sirius. It's a good name. And, no worries. No animals were harmed in the making of this article. Rest easy. As for me, I'm going to go lay in the grass and enjoy the muggy weather, while I swat skeeters. I love summer!