so hot, even the fleas are sleeping
The digital clock on the red-brick savings-bank wall read 99° at almost 7PM tonight, which was about the time I dared go outside and expose my wallpaper-paste-colored skin to the vengeance-minded sun. The solar rays beat down like laser beams, and I could almost hear my skin starting to bubble. My brain started to swell like popcorn inside a Jiffy Pop bag.
99º might not be so unusual where you live, but this is grey, misty, cloud-encased Portland, where I don't ever remember it being this hot. My puny electric fans blew hot air around all day as if I were a Lilliputian being blasted by Gulliver-sized hair dryers.
Because their crushed faces suck hot air straight down into their lungs, pugs don't fare well in blazing summer weather. Cookie's body has been as slack as boiled pasta, lying motionless on the hardwood floor like a corpse on a morgue slab. Even the fleas which roll through Portland pets in summertime like Vandals sacking Rome don't have the energy to hop around on her. Instead, they're taking a siesta in her soft fawn fur.
