My dog Murphy on a walk along the Erie Canal on one of the hottest days in August.
For a few days last month, I really wished my little house had AC. In the ninety-percent humidity I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, I celebrated that time in the evening when it finally cooled down to the eighties.
It was at the eighty-degree mark each night when I would relent to his whines that I was neglecting him and drive myself and my pup to a nearby park to practice fetch for a few throws at a time. Every few tosses, we would both collapse in the shade for a drink of water, and start again. Oh, to be a dog in summer, I thought to myself one evening, loved, cared for, playing in the grass without an existential care in the world.
As it turns out, the so-called “dog days” of summer were named by the Romans. It was the hottest, most humid days in the summer when the star Sirius rose bright in the night sky. Of course, they could actually see the stars rising without the light pollution of my new urban home.
The star called Sirius is the brightest in the dog constellation Canis Major, and it’s named for the god who was thought to reside there. Loyal companion to the hunter Orion, the star we call Sirius was known by a variety of other dog-related names throughout the ancient world: the Wolf Star, the Moon Dog, the Dog of the Sun. To the Romans, Sirius was a harbinger of drought, mad dogs, sudden thunderstorms, lethargy, and bad luck. Interesting qualities for a hunting dog.
My own dog, small, shy, and yet full of boundless energy, probably wouldn’t have made Orion a better companion—and Orion could never love him as much as I do. His variety of unknown doggy trauma leaves me devastated to know how miserable his life used to be and delighted to prove to him what his life is now.
The last few months, on the hot days and the cooler days, we’ve been relishing the fact that he’s allowed to exercise again after his heartworm treatment, practicing new tricks, and going on puppy playdates. This week we made a friend at the park by the name of Hercules.
Sometimes I wonder if a Roman oracle—the best out there—could have seen this coming. Could have seen us coming. Did they have any inkling that our society would still bemoan the most sweltering days of summer, for the heat as well as for the signs of climate crisis? Is there a secret prophecy tucked away somewhere about our future, calling on the next great hero to come save the day?
I wonder what it was about those heroes of old that made them great. Was it what they did? How they did it? Who told the story afterward? Or was it simply a stubborn, tenacious belief that they were responsible? That come hell-hot wildfires or high water in the NYC subway system, they had an obligation to their families, friends, and communities to do their absolute darndest to make the world a better place?
Some days I think it would be a comfort to be the focus of a prophecy—to know for certain that I was destined for greatness and that what I do will truly have an impact. Other days I hope someone else will step up to the challenge so I can take a break.
Prophecy or no, the dog days continue to come and go each summer. Our responsibility remains to work hard to leave our world better than we found it—even if that seems an impossible task these days. But sometimes I think it’s okay if my only responsibility is to throw the tennis ball one more time and watch with happy laughter as Murphy sprints after it, knowing that his life, at least, is better than when I found him.
Lillie grew up on a forty-acre hay farm in Central Oregon, making the trek to Michigan to study mechanical engineering and sustainability. After graduating in 2020, she moved to Rochester, NY, where her day job as an engineer for the local gas utility funds her outdoor adventures, love of books, various craft projects, and investment in her new community.
