by Carrie Classon It’s the best time of year for dogs. I don’t have a dog. I have a cat — as of this year. His name is Felix, and he came from Mexico. When we adopted him, he was skinny and timid after living on the streets for two years. Now, he is plump and playful, with a luxurious coat and an entitled attitude that seems to imply that, since he had it rough for a couple of years, he now expects things to operate according to his plans. Things usually do. But every day on my walk, I see dogs. And this time of year — when the hydrangeas have started to turn pink around the edges and the berries are turning red on the trees — this time of year is called the dog days of summer, and I believe
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