Matthew Keenan

With the countless implications of the heat wave, there is really only one thing I really care about. Our dog Bernie.

A diminished corn crop, dead fish, dried up ponds, polar bears floating away on ice cubes, climate change —all take a back seat to Queen Bernie. Any risk to her health, emotional state, well being? I’m all over it. Talking to her in the morning before work, and when I get home? Check. Making a quick call in the middle of the day to my wife to make sure she is comfortable? Check. Scratching her belly and giving her a chin massage when I get home from work? Check. Refilling her water? Check.

With the heat this bad there are unquestionably a few places you want to avoid. Parking lot L at Royals stadium, for instance, hasn’t seen a car since the All Star Game. And given the team’s latest tank job it’s not likely it will see shade until football season.

Another place that to avoid: the brown metal air vent in our living room. I call it Vent No. 2. With our AC on overdrive, normally it would be chilly to the touch except there is something resting on top of it. Bernie. From morning to early evening she moves not an inch.

I read a website about how dogs cool down: “The only way a dog can cool itself is through panting and sweating through its foot pads. If the air is hotter than the body, the dog cannot cool down. Walking on hot pavement is like putting the heater on.” Sounds dreadful. That reality is a far cry from Bernie’s foot pads. They get the canine equivalent of ice bath.

Bernie’s been schooled in the art of cooling down. This is her 10th summer and eighth in this house. And she has mastered the technique of vent-to-mouth resuscitation. She’s refined it from her early years sticking her head out of the window whenever I drive to pick someone up. Vent No. 2 sits directly above the air condition unit in the basement and blows with a force of Hurricane Hugo. Until it hits Bernie, of course.

Her body is like a throw rug with four paws. She rests strategically on it; the air goes directly into her nose, circulates through her body and then powers her tail, which wags oh-so slightly when you declare “you are a good dog, Bernie.”

What little air escapes around the edges of her body must travel through her coat and is subjected to heat transfer principles that the folks at MIT couldn’t appreciate. Bernie knows cold air. She’s got no choice — Wheatens don’t shed and they don’t droop heir tongue to cool down. It’s bad form for their breed. Neither does she whine or complain, which means she is not related to anyone else in the family.

Vent No. 2 isn’t just chilly. It’s strategic. Like a dugout seat to all the action in the house. She can see the outdoor grill in the event I decide to fire up a BBQ. She can see the TV, which means she hears the same forecast everyday and the same ‘advice’ imparted to viewers. Suggestions that no one needs to tell us like “drink lots of fluids” and “don’t leave your dog in the car.” Bernie can watch my wife play Words with Friends while Lori keeps dialing the thermostat down.

We have a cat but she knows nothing about the heat wave since she hasn’t seen the sun in 10 years.

In cooler months, Bernie will head for the door anytime requested. Not now. Too old and too experienced to be tricked into going outside unless nature is calling or hamburgers are on the grill.

I read where the symptoms of heat stroke in dogs are: “restlessness, excessive panting, excessive drooling, foaming at the mouth, labored breathing, signs of anxiety.”

The symptoms of a great dog adapting just fine to this heat wave? Check Vent No. 2.