Bruiser: (lagging. Perhaps: lollygagging. Or so it appears.)
Me: (gentle tug on the leash) C'mon Bruiser! Come on!
Bruiser: (reluctant trot, followed by immediate and deep interest in a shrubbery)
Me: Oh, COME on, Bruiser. (doubling back, my strategy to countermand my occasionally deep impulse to yank.)
Bruiser: (lifts his head. Pants.)
The historian: I know, big guy. I know.
Me: It's just going to be hot like this for awhile longer, Bruiser. And then it will gradually get better.
Bruiser: (the hell you say.)
|Hot dog, taking simultaneous advantage of the tile floor and the swamp cooler downdraft.|