At 5:52 on Thursday morning I knelt at the end of our driveway in my flannel shirt and pressed the back of my hand flat against the street. Cool, a little damp from someone's sprinkler. Hank stood beside me with the leash in a slack loop, waiting with the patience of a dog who knows this means a walk.
At 3:15 that afternoon I did it again, same spot. I lasted about four seconds before I pulled my hand away. The rule of thumb I learned years ago at the clinic is seven: if you can't hold the back of your hand on the pavement for seven seconds, it's too hot for paws. That afternoon it wasn't close.
When June hits the eighties
Our first stretch of real heat came the third week of June, mid-eighties and sticky, the kind of humid that makes the doors swell in their frames. Hank is sixty-eight pounds of golden-retriever-ish coat with a big chest and no sense of moderation. He'd happily chase a squirrel at noon in July, and he'd pay for it.
So every summer our days reshuffle around him. Here's what this year looks like:
- 5:45 a.m. Coffee on the back step while Hank does a lap of the fenced yard and checks on the overnight squirrel situation.
- 6:00 to about 6:40 a.m. The main walk, while the street is still cool. On my clinic days (Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday) this is the only real walk he gets before I drive to Princeton.
- Breakfast after the walk, never right before, then a long nap in the living room with the window unit humming.
- Midday: backyard only, in the shade, plus a drink from the hose if he asks nicely.
- 8:30 p.m. or later: the evening walk, once the sun is low and the pavement has had a few hours to cool. It stays light until nearly 9:30 now, which helps.
Caleb's county crew starts early in summer, so mornings are mine and evenings are usually his. On my days off we stretch the morning walk and head down to the sandy bend on the Rum River, where Hank wades in to his elbows and comes back smelling like a riverbank.
Our shady routes
We're lucky to live on an older street. The trees are big, the boulevards are grass, and by 8 p.m. a lot of our route is in shadow. Hank walks on the grass edge when he can, and I let him pick his line.
From June through August we skip the newer stretches with fresh black asphalt and no trees, plus a big parking lot we used to cut across. Black asphalt in full sun is the worst of the lot. Concrete sidewalks are better but not safe by default, so I still do the hand test on any surface I'm not sure about.
I made the classic mistake earlier this month. It was a gray, cloudy afternoon, only 78 degrees, and I figured that meant a normal walk. The humidity said otherwise. Ten minutes in, Hank lay down on a stranger's shady lawn and refused to move, panting hard, and I sat there with him until he was ready to walk home slowly. Cloudy doesn't mean cool, and humidity counts.
What we watch for
From the front desk: the first hot weekend of every summer brings the same calls. Pads blistered on a midday walk. A dog who went jogging with its owner at lunch and then couldn't get up. People are always shocked, because the dog seemed fine right up until it wasn't.
At home I watch for Hank's panting getting heavier instead of settling, his tongue going wide and flat, lagging behind on a walk where he normally pulls, or him hunting for shade and lying down. Any one of those means we turn around and head home. What counts as normal panting for your dog and what counts as an emergency is worth asking your vet about before the hot days arrive, not in the middle of one.
Thunderstorms add a wrinkle. A few evenings this month the 8:30 walk got canceled by a storm rolling in from the west, and Hank spent that time in his basement den instead, which he does not consider a fair trade.
Tonight it's supposed to drop to 64. It's 8:20, and Hank is already at the back door, talking under his breath, as if he can read a forecast.
