Degrees of Ahh--(A poem)

Night Swimming

Fiona the wild rescued Chihuahua sent away the ducks but they kept coming back. They were sneaking in at night for moonlight swimming in our lap pool.

It sounds romantic but they were also not using Charmin bath tissues or even those newfangled flush-able wipes. The pool guy would clean around the gluey mess at the bottom and insist on higher fees for managing the indelicate mess. The bacteria level made it a risky swim akin to jumping in a toddler pool after lunch. And the area around the pool became dangerously slippery and downright disgusting.

 Finally, after many silly ideas such as a scarecrow which didn’t work and looked ugly, and a small toy crocodile in the shallow end that also didn’t work, because California ducks have never seen crocodiles, thus have no reason to fear them, we came up with a creative solution. We found a metal sculpture of a menacing peacock. Once painted—it looks realistic and bam—no more ducks. 

Dog Days!

 Dog Days of Summer!

This is Pinky and Fiona sitting in the pleasant morning rays.

Did I mention it’s the dog days of summer around here? I am super appreciative for a daytime high of only 112 here, as opposed to the scorching heat at my previous residence located in the Coachella Valley, where I recall heat-waves over 120 degrees. We lived in the desert town of La Quinta for over eight years and what made it difficult was that it often doesn’t cool down at night. The surrounding clay mountains suck up the heat and radiate it back out during the entire evening. It sounds lovely in theory but I remember 95 at midnight. The adjacent city is understandably called Thermal. The temperatures out there are so high that the meteorologists don’t even mention it on the Los Angeles news channels, because then no one would want to play golf, and few would want to visit the gorgeous resorts.

Of course those same forecasters talk it up in winter, attracting snowbirds from the coldest part of the planet.  Unbelievable as it may sound, La Quinta’s weather occasionally competes with the highs in Death Valley. I think where we now reside is probably located half way between both of those places.

Lucky for me, I prefer warm, dry heat and thus Desert Rocks— is the name of my creative writing company. We all have limits and there's also something called a heat index that describes how humidity creates an ugly heat that feels hotter than mere degrees. Here’s my dry weather meter:

1.       75-Perfect weather for almost every outdoor activity. (Especially dining Al fresco).

2.       85-Nice but don’t ask me to do any gardening. (Honestly, I don’t pull weeds or do windows in any weather.)

3.       95-Let’s go swimming!

4.       105-Maybe I’ll read a book or take a nap. 

5.       110+Plus--Put on the air-conditioning and no one gets hurt.

REMEMBER;

 NEVER LEAVE A CHILD

 OR PET IN A HOT CAR!!!

 

Pinky is becoming overheated in this picture.
Her tongue and body language indicates
 that she needs to go inside where it's cooler.

How about you? What’s your limit?