The Dog Days

The Dog Days

By Mark Leitheiser

Well, here we are, enjoying our annual visit with the dog days of summer. Despite their name, these days actually have little to do with our dogs even as they hang their heads out of pickup windows or slobber on our shoes trying to deal with the heat this time of year. 

As is often the case, the history here goes back to the Romans who called this time of year, dies caniculares, which, of course, means, “days of the dogstar.” The dogstar was, and remains, Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky. This should not be confused with Minnesotan, dies cabino ad fishular which, roughly translated, means, “days at the cabin for fishing.”

The Old Farmer’s Almanac specifies that the dog days of summer run from July 3rd through August 11th. Today, however, the dog days are generally accepted as covering all of July and August in the Northern Hemisphere. These are days of hot, humid weather, severe storms and bad luck. If your summer has been anything like mine, you can relate.

So what do we do about these, “dog days”? For the best answer we need look no further than the dogs themselves: we cool off in the water. Here in Minnesota, we are blessed with endless resources when it comes to cooling off in the summer. We have pools, water parks, rivers, hoses and, of course, 10,000 lakes just waiting for us to jump in for a swim.

Ah, swimming. With the possible exception of a 12-ounce can, is there anything more refreshing on a hot summer day? And for those of us of a certain age, can anything bring us back more quickly to the joyful, carefree days spent swimming under a blazing summer sun?

Many of you started your journey through the water with your first swimming lesson. I did too, but with rather underwhelming results. Mom hauled my brother and I to our first swimming lesson at the high school pool when I was in early grade school. She had never learned to swim and water scared her so she was bound and determined her kids would not follow her path- straight to the bottom of the pool. 

Unfortunately for me, these lessons quickly established a rather predictable pattern. I would jump in the pool with the rest of the kids and try to float, kick and swim. My instructors did their best but it was no use. I truly was my mother’s son and I followed her path-straight to the bottom of the pool. 

Worse, I was a skinny little thing who was shadowed by hypothermia from the moment I arrived at the pool. After pulling me from the bottom of the pool a few times each day, my disheartened teachers would set me on the much safer pool’s edge where before long, I would begin to shake from the cold. When my teeth began to chatter, my teachers were kind enough to give me a new nickname: “The Model-T”.

Not surprisingly, the real Model-Ts were more successful than I. At the merciful end of our swimming lessons, my brother and I went to get our certificates. He received a passing grade and a “congratulations, young man.” I received a shrug of the shoulders and a “maybe next year, chief.” I’ll admit I was a bit disappointed but a trip to Dairy Queen for a Dilly Bar was a pretty good consolation prize. Second year of lessons: failure and a Dilly Bar. Third year of lessons: failure and a Dilly Bar. When it came to swimming during the dog days of summer, I was a failure. Until I wasn’t.

Things changed one afternoon when the Johnson brothers visited. They, along with my brother and I were killing time on a gloriously hot afternoon when we came upon a water-filled dugout in a peat bed which we would affectionately call, “The Peat Hole.” It was a simmering day and you know what happened next: the boys jumped in (who needs swim suits when you have underwear?) and began to have a great time. This is the moment things changed, because at this moment, I was ready to swim. 

I jumped right in and began doing something resembling a cross between a dog paddle and a grand mal seizure. I didn’t matter; this wasn’t the Olympics and there were no judges here. All that mattered was that my head was above water. There would be no Dilly Bar consolation prize this time. I had taken my first step in my career as a teacher. I was teaching myself to swim and by the end of the summer, I was pretty darn good at it. 

Which came in handy several years later in high school. Being up north near lots of lakes, our high school required students to pass swimming in order to get a diploma and my considerable time in the Peat Hole set me up for success. 

This was especially important because our swimming class was co-ed and none of the guys wanted to look stupid by drowning in front of the girls. Tragically, it was also a time when skimpy Speedo swimsuits were in fashion. Mine was yellow. Can you imagine? A coed class with sophomore boys wearing flimsy Speedo swimsuits! The guys seemed a lot happier about this than the girls but we were too stupid to notice it. You’ll be relieved to know I no longer have my yellow Speedo. The sight of me wearing it today would probably clear a beach in 90 seconds. Today, I look better wearing a pickle barrel than a Speedo.

Well, our annual visit with the dog days of summer are nearly complete so I hope you’ll get out there and enjoy a good swim while you still can. But please guys, don’t do it in your Speedo.