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?