It’s August

Dogs make non-negotiable demands, even though they’re nice about it.  The best is that they must go out as soon as you’ve gotten conscious and clothed and before you get unconscious and in your jammies.  Tom and Sally (their names have been changed to protect the innocent) need to run; none of this just out the backdoor stuff; you’re looking at a half mile minimum and the weather be damned.  In fact, the cooler and wetter the better.  So a small, self-selected community rolls out the door at 7 AM, to peruse the wafting odors of the day.  In August, it’s piercingly clear that the dawn is creeping backwards and the shift is presaged by the grasshoppers that fly (name?) that are jumping out of the way all over the place.  A dog’s focus of interest is a doorway to a different reality.  Here, I suspect a coyote has left a small present: they’re both intensely interested, and there: a rabbit passes by regularly, but not in a while.  And now it’s time to beat you up, and nip you in the tender places.  I’m listening to birds this morning.  Juvenile blue jays are screeching to one another (they run around in gangs).  Goldfinches are doing the goldfinch mating/domesticity thing since they breed in August.  Chipping sparrows are running around in the short grass and gravel doing something that sounds a little like a chain running through a narrow opening.

I suspect markets will rise today in some barren echo of olympic enthusiasm (barring political unrest and/or a storm in a sensitive region).  As George H. W. Bush said (I think): ‘There’s something about August.’  I usually think of August and February in the same thought-park.  They are two months past the solstice and are on the trailing edge of change, but when I really begin to feel it.  August sends me into a panic.

On the other hand, the racing is lovely.  Babies and veterans at the Spa and Del Mar.  Aahhh.

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