I am a dog … my name is Mac.

It should have been “Hoover,” since I’m prone to vacuum up food crumbs and other strange edibles. But more about me later. This is about surviving Dog Days in Dixie, folks, and finding relief from the hot, languid days of August. I’d like to suggest some beat-the-heat tips, sorta like a page out of the Dog Diary.

First, however, let’s get one thing straight: Dogs are “chosen creatures.” How so, you ask? Dog spelled backwards is God … do the math … and Dog Theology has it that the Original Creation Almighty Providence foresaw the mess humans would become and sent dogs as examples of “how to live.” Dogs are highly adaptive in manipulating human behavior, which supports the argument that dogs train humans, not the reverse. Are we clear on this?

OK, then, a little about myself. I am a 5-year old, 25-pound Westie, a natural born killer of rodents and innately schooled in the fine art of digging. Born in Savannah and living near the beach, I’m Aristocracy, a Blueblood Dog of the South. I’m the final authority on Dog Days, y’all. Pay attention!

I have a live-in mate, Sophie, a female 14 dog-years my senior. Our relationship is purely platonic, but things have worked out pretty well so far. We recommend it to others, especially humans … the platonic part, that is. It solves a lot of problems later on.

Food is our hot button. We hang out near the table, stove or refrig and are prescient in knowing when accidental food droppings will occur. Position is paramount in order to capture it in mid-flight … timing is everything. I sometimes put on my “hangdog” look to get a furtive morsel. We seem to eat a lot during Dog Days. Make a note: eating’s a good thing!

Our parents are “mommy” and “Pack Leader.” They seem to respond favorably to this felicitous show of respect, and it often buys us a walk on the beach. Dog Days are a great time to show respect and get to the beach. Freed of leashes, we chase whatever moves, helter-skelter, swimming, digging in the sand, rolling in it, carefree … Advice? Abandon constraints; the beach is waiting for your feet!

Alas, however, what we roll in, or dig up, has to be washed off, and we do this by a quick swim in the pool or a wash job in the outdoor shower. It’s an acceptable penalty for having had so much fun. We endure the bathing indignity because we always get a “treat” for good behavior. It might even work the same way for you.

Sometimes we meet our neighborhood dog friends on afternoon strolls. It’s a thrill to sniff and spend a little playful time with them, and you should try that too, the playful time, that is … Stroll and sniff the flowers!

Speaking of friends, I have a pal, Butch, a large black Lab with academic credentials. He boasts that his “Pack Leader,” an attorney of dubious renown, has trained him to take dictation and type … as far as I know he’s the only dog on the island who works during Dog Days. Us? We shun work, and avoid like the plague all contact with lawyers … you should do likewise!

I have one bone to pick, however. Often the Pack Leader maniacally hustles us outside, shouting “do hurry up, do your hurry-up … hurry up.” Look, who can make these things happen “on command” anyway? Like fine wine, some things should never be rushed, and “hurry-up” is one of them. Suggestion? Get yourself a bottle of good vintage and forget hurry up … relax, you have the rest of your life!

Dog Days in Dixie. Imagine the possibilities.

But what do I know? I’m just a dog … my name is Mac.