A day in the life of a dog in a heatwave ...Middle East

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A day in the life of a dog in a heatwave

I always know when it’s too hot for my dog by the length of her tongue, and just how far it protrudes from her slack jaw. It is 10am on Friday as I write this, and already, my phone tells me, it’s 27 degrees. Stupid hot. There’s an amber heat health alert on.

My dog, Missy, a border terrier, is skulking in the kitchen, her bright pink tongue dangling between her knees. The look she affords me is one of withering disdain, as if she blames me, personally, for this unusually hot July, and for global warming in general. She may have a short coat, but it still constitutes “fur”, and who the hell elects to wear fur on a day like this?

    Dog ownership becomes horribly complicated in high summer. The local parks are overrun with picnics, and there is nothing a dog likes more than someone else’s picnic, and nothing a picnicker likes less than a roving hound. More pertinently, it’s too hot to walk your dog in the first place. They do not do well in the heat.

    Like Prince Andrew, dogs don’t sweat like the rest of us. They do so through the pads on their paws, which means that hot pavements are not good for them. The longer their coats, the hotter they get, and the more likely they are to pant into overheating and – sorry to be blunt – death. I’ve spent much of the past week consulting the RSPCA’s website before even stepping over the threshold of my front door into the big “out there”.

    There’s plenty of advice online, much of it complicated. For example, while humans might appreciate a cold flannel, the flannel will merely serve to trap the heat in a dog. They could pass out. Pouring water over your pooch is the safer option, but even here we should exercise caution. “Not so much that they begin to shiver,” says the RSPCA.

    In sweltering summer months, dog owners are advised to rise early. My wife walks ours shortly after dawn, before the pavements burn, then returns quickly home, allowing her to spend the rest of the day spark out on the living room rug. (The dog, not my wife.) It is hotter in the living room than it is in the kitchen, but you try making sensible suggestions to a terrier. Similarly, we can lead her to water, but we can’t make her drink. They need to drink.

    Mid-afternoon brings with it more problems. All dogs know when it’s time for their second walk of the day, and mine, irrespective of the rising mercury in the thermometer, remains a creature of habit. I explain to her – in English, the only language I know – that it is still too hot, that we must wait. “After dinner,” I say.

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    But then I worry. I worry that her usual routine prompts within her certain Pavlovian responses. Do her bowels instinctively loosen, go slack even, because she knows relief is – or at least should be – imminent? (Excuse the scatological talk here, but find me a dog owner not willing to discuss their dog’s toilet habits in detail.)

    For reasons known only to herself, Missy doesn’t like to relieve herself in the garden. Secretly, I am pleased about this – I like my garden – but I also don’t wish upon her bladder and bowel discomfort. To distract her, we hose her down, but this only sends her into the kind of mad barking frenzy that neighbours tend not to appreciate.

    When eventually we do walk, late, we keep to the shadows. Eager as she is to relieve herself, and for a change of scenery, she realises abruptly that it’s as hot out here as it is indoors, and so she stops walking, plants her centre of gravity low, and challenges me to give it my best shot. I coax her forward, gently but firmly pulling on the lead, but she simply relaxes her inner giraffe, her neck extending to lengths I wouldn’t have thought possible. She doesn’t move. We return home.

    Back on the RSPCA website, I am encouraged to train a fan upon her, which I do. Then we share an ice cream, an unhealthy treat perhaps, but it’s the only time she actively smiles all day.

    It’s going to be a long hot summer. 

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