My tadpoles,

At the suggestion of your grandmother, and the demand of Mother Nature, we broke out the kiddie pool today. 

You remember the kiddie pool. That $10 glorified frisbee you have treated like one, chewing the entire circumference like a bully stick. And Chuck, no need to mention what I’ve seen you do on the side of that poor thing.

But 110 degree temperatures will lead a man to do strange things. Like order breakfast in. Like work on some morning poetry. Like skip the dogpark.

Ok, ok, you caught me: I tried to sneak that last one in. And I understand: It’s a treasonable offense; perhaps lynchable.

But hear me out. First we broke out the cheap inflatable fountain we bought for Jadie in puppyhood.

You both loved it, pouncing on and off the tiny nozzles. Until I noticed the gusher flowing from the side seam of the “fountain.”

So out came the kp. After a quick scrub, it fit nicely in the fountain’s rubber chalk line. And fired up the hose.

Jadie, you became a puppy again. When I set down the pool, you sat squarely in it and watched as I cranked the spigot.

Do you remember those days? Are you telling me you do?

When I began filling it, you stuck your maw in the way, blocking the blast and stealing a sip. On the way to the other side of the pool, I’d nail you at the base of your tail. You’d whirlpool to the other edge, blocking that blast before getting doused and spun again. 

Charlie, my apologies. I forget how electrified Jadie gets by hoses. She chased you like you were an impala on the Serengeti. Though given how much you loved to be hunted — and were a roadrunner to Jadie’s Wile E. — maybe apologies aren’t necessary.

At least for the unexpected water park day. I will formally ask for human forgiveness for calling these the dog days just because of a little heat.

They clearly need a kiddie pool.