The ‘dies caniculares’ theory

Not even the hammock is moving in the still of evening. Well, maybe a light jingle on the occasions when lying here I curse out loud and swat at mosquitoes. They jet through the rise of smoke from my nearby now-dying burn pile. Jet through like water bombers through a forest fire: my plan for a smoke-screen foiled; and yes I remembered to call in my burn permit number this time.

The onset of night when every leaf of every tree, every blade of grass is arrested in the ether. The fireflies gather, marking territory in the silky light, beacons in a nightscape; wishing they were stars. Bats lurk on high and in hurried form. I call out to them, telling on the mosquitoes; describing how I see mosquito flyways everywhere; hoping that my reconnaissance will encourage the bats to descend en masse and without discretion upon the squadrons of the low-life-blood-sucking-needle-nose things! Then out of nowhere, I remember the night a barred owl

called from its perch, called from a tree, nearby to my roof skylight, open and just above my head; brought a smile of comfort to my sleep reverie. My new thought has returned me to calm.

So tonight there is no agenda as I lie here gazing to the heavens. I’m taking the occasion to see if I can spot a certain star within the constellation Canis Major—Large Dog. I think the constellation is directly above the Consecon water tower over there or maybe those are circling planes from CFB Trenton I’m seeing. Apparently and according to the Greeks way back then—I often imagine if they were to have social media and lived in the present we wouldn’t have to know anything, just tweet, they knew it all—summer heat draws the brightest star of that constellation, the star Sirius, closest to the sun during these months. Also apparently, the window of time for the visibility of that star is July 24 to August 24— hate to be the one to say it, but the waning days of summer. Don’t panic, there is much more summer to come. Ignore me if you spot me in my yard stacking firewood, a factor that led to my present hammock recovery period; recovery tied in with a frosty beverage to ward off dehydration.

Seems like the recovery period lasted longer than anticipated and I snoozed off for a bit which then led to the thought of the star Sirius somehow. I’m an amateur at stargazing. I most often refer to my nine-year-old son’s, Anyone Can Stargaze, an illustrated glow-in-thedark book for beginners. All of it helps as I fudge my way through trying to get at why they call these hot August days, dog days. Think about it. Dogs don’t get to do grocery shopping at extreme leisurely paces to take in the relief of an air conditioned store. Nor do they get to stand in the walk-in cooler at the liquor outlet. “Celebrate the dog days of summer with the rest of us, hang your tongue out ‘til it touches the ground for the cooling effect why not? Works for us.” Dogs over-elaborate in my opinion. Frankly, I celebrate by cording firewood as an antidote to the rerun of the ice age in January-February.

Speaking of dogs, the coyotes just announced themselves: the excited cry of the pack as they busy at the start of night. I wonder if they could be coaxed into becoming natural predators of mosquitoes. Anyhow, seems like the star Sirius is synonymous with the hottest days of the year, which are synonymous with days that are slow and languid, which further supports the concept of hammock weather. The idiom of the dog days now also seems to extend to mean any period of stagnation, which for me, as I study my stack of firewood from a distance, could easily be a cause of my wanting to sit around the woodstove during the dog days of February. Perhaps better to call them sled dog days,a but the cause is heat related! At last: understanding the Latin ‘dies caniculares’ theory—dog star days— helps makes sense of it, helps with explaining my need for hammock retreats: Dear me: My lucky stars.