The Dog Days

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The dog days or dog days of summer are the hot, sultry days of summer. They were historically the period following the heliacal rising of the star system Sirius, which Hellenistic astrology connected with heat, drought, sudden thunderstorms, lethargy, fever, mad dogs, and bad luck. They are now taken to be the hottest, most uncomfortable part of summer in the Northern Hemisphere.

— Quoth Mandarax — er, Wikipedia

The Two Kitty Cats Cute told me I was daft to want to go outside during the Dog Days. They reminded me that Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun. They reminded me we had a nifty new rug to loll upon. I told them it was a Sunday in August and I wanted to go the beach.

This time, I wasn’t defeated by the traffic or the crowds or the parking, particularly, but by the oppressive smothering of a humid marine layer, many degrees hotter than the Valley. Hoping to strike the usually briny, fresh Westside, I drifted south along PCH as far as El Segundo looking for blue skies and a breeze. At Imperial Highway, the southern border of LAX, I gave up, admitted the cats were right, and turned inland.

All I got was this gloomy and depressing (thus, rare) shot of LAX before I headed home.

When I arrived, I found that Norah had convinced Ito it was a flying carpet. He was trying to “become the gul,” to unify his body with the design of the rug, and thus, learn its secrets. What a dope.


On the other hand, I drove all the way to LAX in the Dog Days for no benefit at all. Who’s the dope?

Big Basin — “Yikes!”

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I keep repeating: The California Floristic Province is adapted to fire. Redwoods are specifically adapted for fire. They can and do spring back, and shoot up fresh sproutlings. But…



Human hearts are adapted to being broken. Californians’ hearts are specifically adapted to being cracked by fires. Hearts can and do spring back, and shoot up fresh sproutlings. But…

California’s first state park, 1902. Chris took the family here about ten years ago. It was one of the most thrilling nature walks — and drives home — I’ve ever had. Please, God, may this holy place spring back.

UPDATE 8/25/2020: The San Jose Mercury News reports that the resident naturalists are confident of recovery! Whew. Awesome. I am now fascinated to see what will happen up there in coming months/years as the rains come (please not too much) and as the first fire-sprouters come up.

The Mouth of Santa Monica — Will Rogers State Beach

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The foundation at the top of the Palisade is all that remains of Charles Laughton’s house, most of which slid down onto PCH. It’s a rare spot on the coast where we aren’t being overlorded by some gleaming palace of the Conspicuously Consuming.

The View took in the morning: hot; a slack calendar; and light traffic. The beach! First swim of the summer. I took Topanga Canyon, which was so empty I got to coast down the winding road, breathing in the sagebrush, all the way from Mulholland to the PCH.

I got in a fine swim in emerald green surf. Trudging back across the sand I was struck by how beautiful the Boca of Santa Monica looked this morning. This is a little creek that drains the Palisades, but the water never quite makes it to the sea; it disappears into the sands just a few yards from the surf. Egrets, curlews, and other wading fowl were loving life. The bridge carries the PCH, where the famous Patrick’s Roadhouse offers a power-breakfast spot for Tom Cruise and Schwarzenegger and all the other A-listers. And the heavenly entrada of Santa Monica Canyon, behind.


Gov. Alvarado gave this land to two couples in joint ownership: the LA blacksmith Ysidro Reyes and his wife Maria Villa; and the LA vintner Francisco Marquez and his wife, Roque Valenzuela. Both families were hijos de pais, born in L.A., the children and grandchildren of Spanish army officers. The name of the creek gave the title of the ranch — but it was a bit of a patriarchal joke. Saint Monica is the patroness of wives who hold their tongues, and don’t gush forth:

“Example of a Wife: The Church celebrates the relationship of the saintly mother and son, but what is often not stressed is that she was a saintly wife. She married a hot-tempered pagan, Patricius, and through her patience, perseverance, charity, and prayers, her husband did convert to Christianity on his deathbed. Set a guard, LORD, before my mouth, keep watch over the door of my lips (Psalm 141:3) Monica provided such a loving example of simply not reacting or criticizing her husband when he would lose his temper or verbally abuse her. Patience and gentleness moved him more than responding and criticizing.”

— Encyclopedia of Cotholic Culture

I’m literally the only person in Los Angeles who still gets the joke, so I share it for purposes of local folklore. The full fascinating story of how Santa Monica got to be called Santa Monica, can be seen here:

https://valleyvillage.home.blog/2020/03/27/long-view-of-kuruvungna-springs-or-the-tears-of-saint-monica/

Ah! Sweet Mystery Of Life, At Last I’ve Found You

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Norah discovers the new rug. She wonders why, if we loved her, we were holding out on her. She swears she’ll never go back to those crummy bare floors. There’s talk of a lawsuit, and an audit of the storage unit for any more hidden rugs.

30 bucks at the Valley Thrift. Clean as the conscience of the Prophet. Who could leave it there? It’s a classic bokhara prayer rug. The design originated by the Turkoman Tekke and Gul tribes of Central Asia, now copied all over the world. The “guls” stacked in the middle are of the “elephant-foot” pattern. It’s the classic vegetable-dye red and ivory. I bound up a few ripped edges, and satisfyingly, I removed several funny old staples, where many rug merchants over the years clipped their price tags. Imagine: this rug may have first been brought by its family to the market in Bokhara on the back of a camel.

Interesting to note, that I needed to set it at the counter to go out to find an ATM, since the Thrift’s was out of cash. Three of the local ATMs were also out of cash. I got in the car and drove to another neighborhood, no dice. Finally I drove home and asked Damey and Janet if they had any cash in their wallets. We made up the amount and I returned to retrieve the rug, but zheesh and Yegods, what’s up with the currency shortage??

Anyway I’m excited because this rug replaces the beautiful rug Chris brought back from Uzbekistan, but which, through over-loving and Clio and beach sand and the traffic of many joyous occasions, had finally given up the ghost. So it’s like we get Chris’s rug back.