Dogs are amazing creatures that have an uncanny ability to provide insights into human behaviour - and human limitations.
Their deep and profound devotion to a "master" often
mirrors our own penchant for religiosity.
For the most part, dogs are ultimately rational beings.
When they're thirsty, they find water and drink it - wherever it happens to be - and the thirstier they get, the less picky they get about the quality of the water they'll drink.
When they're hungry, they find food and eat it - wherever it happens to be - and the hungrier they get, the harder they work at finding food, and the less picky they get about what they will eat.
They're not much different from people, in that respect.
Like us, they're evolutionarily designed that way.
They also poop and pee when they feel the need, and like some people, they'll do it wherever they happen to be when the feeling comes upon them - although, most dogs will "save a little" to ensure they have the wherewithal to mark territory.
We humans - most of us, at least - have developed more subtle ways to assert ownership of space.
Physically, dogs and people have a lot in common with each other and with most other mammals - two eyes, two ears, a nose and a mouth, four limbs, and the usual naughty bits.
But there are significant differences that some people - even those who have gotten up close and personal with our canine colleagues - just can't seem to comprehend.
Those differences can mean a lot, especially when the weather turns hot, as it has in the past little while. One of the big differences is that some people are stupid, and their dogs can't tell the difference.
In some ways, dogs are like fanatically religious human beings, only, to them, we are the gods. A dog whose religious devotion has been effectively nurtured - or twisted - will blindly follow its god anywhere and into any conditions.
And dogs have a knack for appearing happy whenever they are in the presence of their god - no matter how foolish their god is.
That's why you might see a dog sitting on a hot slab of pavement on a 30-degree day, sporting a huge grin, looking adoringly up at his god, with tongue lolling in apparent ecstasy.
The dog doesn't know that his god is stupid. Because his god doesn't know that the dog is dying out there - literally.
One basic difference between human mammals and the canine variety is that we sweat better than they do. In fact, dogs sweat only from their feet.
And when that tongue is hanging out as far as the dog can get it, the motivation is not joy; it's the only other way the dog has to dissipate the excruciating heat that is building in its body from the sun beating its rays down relentlessly, and the pavement radiating heat upwards, equally relentlessly. And while a bit of water from the hand of god now and again might help ease a little of the dog's discomfort, it's not enough.
Your dog is dying, idiot. If you don't believe me, next time you are possessed of the desire to submit your dog to concrete and pavement on the hottest days of the year, put on a heavy fur coat and walk yourself downtown for an hour or two.
A good and loving god knows that, sometimes, your devoted follower is best left behind in the cool comfort of home.
Bob Groeneveld is editor of the Langley Advance, a sister paper to the Burnaby NOW. Email him at editor@ langleyadvance.com.
