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Permit me to begin with an observation about humans.
You are a remarkably intelligent species. You landed on the moon, invented air conditioning, and somehow concluded that the ideal time to walk a 140-pound Newfoundland is two o’clock on a July afternoon because, and I quote, “He needs the exercise.” It’s an impressive combination of genius and spectacularly poor timing.
No. He needs you to exercise better judgment.
I know something about hot weather because I wear what amounts to a year-round wool overcoat. Mine happens to be black and white, which is handsome but not especially practical when Beaver County decides to imitate South Carolina for a week. Meanwhile, my human keeps remarking that “it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” as though this is somehow encouraging.
Unlike humans, dogs don’t cool ourselves by sweating. We have a few sweat glands in our paw pads, but that’s about it. Nearly all of our cooling comes from panting. Once temperatures climb into the mid-80s—and humidity joins the party—that system begins to fail because the air we’re breathing in is almost as warm as the air we’re trying to breathe out.
That’s how heat stroke happens.
And it happens much faster than most people imagine.
During a heat wave, I recommend embracing a philosophy I perfected years ago: go outside only when absolutely necessary. It is a lifestyle that has served me admirably and has yet to produce any measurable disadvantages.
If your dog must venture outdoors, try a simple trick. Five minutes beforehand, dampen the paw pads with a cool washcloth. Then wipe the armpits, groin, and inner thighs. Those areas contain large blood vessels close to the surface, so cooling them lowers the temperature of the blood circulating through the body.
Think of it as installing central air for a dog who neglected to order the option at the factory.
Now let’s dispose of three summertime myths.
First: Never drape a wet towel over your dog’s back.
Humans mean well, but this traps heat instead of releasing it, rather like putting a quilt over your radiator. Spread the towel on the floor instead and let us lie on it. Our belly can transfer heat into the towel while our back remains open to the breeze.
Second: Don’t hand an overheated dog a giant bowl of ice water.
When we’re panting hard, instinct tells us to gulp. Giant breeds like me swallow lots of air along with the water, increasing the risk of bloat—a life-threatening emergency. Offer cool or room-temperature water in small amounts instead. Ice cubes or frozen broth treats are fine because they encourage slow licking rather than frantic drinking.
Third—and this is for every owner of a Newfoundland, Golden Retriever, Husky, or similar breed—please don’t shave us.
Our double coat is not a design flaw. It reflects sunlight while allowing air to circulate underneath. Remove it and we’re more likely to overheat—and sunburn besides.
Instead, brush us.
Better yet, brush us thoroughly.
Dead winter undercoat is like wearing a fleece jacket to the Beaver County Boom. Remove it, and the breeze can finally reach our skin. Your vacuum cleaner may object, but we’ll send it a thank-you note.
As for exercise, here’s another radical suggestion.
Don’t.
At least not during the afternoon.
Walk us at dawn, when the grass is cool and the sidewalks haven’t spent the day storing enough heat to roast a kielbasa. Stick to shaded grass whenever possible. Pavement burns paw pads while radiating heat straight into our bellies.
During heat waves, replace physical exercise with mental exercise. Hide treats around the house. Use puzzle toys. Freeze our dinner inside a rubber toy with a little broth. Twenty minutes of sniffing and problem-solving will tire us out nicely without requiring a visit to the emergency veterinarian.
Finally, learn the warning signs. If our tongue stretches unusually long with the tip curling upward like a spoon, pay attention. If our gums turn deep red, gray, or purple instead of healthy pink, pay attention. If we seem confused, stumble, or stare blankly, move us into air conditioning, begin cooling us with cool—not icy—water, and call your veterinarian immediately.
Dogs are loyal creatures.
We’ll chase tennis balls long after common sense has packed up and gone home. We’ll keep trying to please you right up until we collapse.
Which is why summer safety isn’t our responsibility.
It’s yours.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a wonderfully cool patch of tile in front of the air-conditioning vent with my name on it. My human calls it laziness.
I call it executive decision-making.
