Chilled

Hot town. Summer in the city. Sing it: 'back of my neck is dirty and gritty.

Lucky for me and the Old Man, we work in Dumbo, Brooklyn where the cool waters of the East River lap the shoreline all day, and beckon all the overheated keyboard pounders to the breezy shadow lines of Fulton Ferry Park.

Summer is a dog's dream. Grasses to roll in --- and sometimes nibble. Errant squirrels to chase back into leafy environs. And fallen ice cream cone dribbles to lick from paws.

Now that epic heat is dominating the news, I go to great lengths to promote my inner cool. Twice per day I wade shoulder-height into the crashing waves of the East River and bark madly at the sandstorms curling around my toes, secretly longing to relive my Gladiator-like battle with a Virginia Beach crab in the light of last August's full moon. Revenge will be mine, sea monster!

Back at the office, Old Man keeps the floor fan humming at full tilt --- it's the perfect wind velocity to practice my Stevie Nicks impressions (even tomboys have a gypsy locked deep inside them). I creep up close and ride the breeze until I spot a horse fly to chase, or feel the need to scare the UPS delivery boy.