Ever met a puppy you wanted to kick?

I know one. His name is Sirius.

People tell me all the time how wonderful Sirius is.

The same people say this while whipping back sun-bleached blonde hair and applying tanning oil to their already bronze bodies. They say this while glistening bags of sweat drip off them.

They say this with sand residue between their toes and coolers full of Coronas within arm’s reach. They say this while skipping over dunes, collecting shells, and constructing small castles for crustaceans.

They say this while watching a thermometer climb to Hades-like temperatures. They drive vehicles with propaganda reading, “salt life,” beach vibes,” or “I’m on island time” plastered on their back windows.

Standing beside them, dizzy from the sweltering heat, slathered in enough Coppertone SPF100 to hide my freckles, in the middle of prostrating in the hopes that the Holy Spirit will send a cool breeze, they turn to me and say,

Isn’t Sirius just the best? “Aren’t summers, just like, the best?”

I stare at them. I stare at