Yes, to be fair, everyone—everything—was hot that summer. But it was obvious, to anyone who cared enough to look, that the dogs were the hottest of them all. The most beleaguered and put-upon by the unprecedented (and might one add: relentless) heatwave. Worse still, it seemed so many of their “owners” had no presence of mind to get them groomed, therefore shaved. You know, so that they might not all be walking around wearing literal fur coats in searing weather.

Dogs that actually were groomed exemplified the key difference between intensely suffering and only mildly suffering. The difference between “enduring” and damn near passing out (and also possibly dying instead of “reviving”). Especially when their owners had the audacity to take them on a so-called walk (though more like a “drag”) at any hour that was before eleven p.m. or after six a.m.

These were the only blocks of time that might be considered mildly “cool.” That is, by what the modern standards of “cool” had now become. Which was to say, absolutely boiling by the “old” standards (read: the more normal, reliable ones). Like every other animal, this abrupt temperature shift toward the extreme and untenable was no fault of the dogs. Yet they were, in truth, bearing a far heavier brunt than what humans had to.

This is what a panting and extremely overheated sheepdog named Flavio was barking out to the crowd of canines that he had attracted to gather ‘round him as he pontificated on the injustices of this heat and what it was doing to them as a species, more than the one that supposedly “owned” them. Who were they, Flavio kept saying, to claim ownership when the only thing that yielding to this ilk had ever gotten anyone—dog or otherwise—was death and/or destruction. Well, Flavio declared, he could no longer stand back idly and watch his canine brethren endure this hell. This absolute and total injustice.

Another dog in the audience, Clarence (a Doberman), wanted to know how, exactly, Flavio planned to make any kind of real or revolutionary change. How he planned to go beyond “all talk.” Flavio refrained, as best he could, from baring his teeth at Clarence’s suggestion that he was merely frothing at the mouth (literally and figuratively). That he didn’t have some kind of “actionable” plan. Of course he did. It might have been simple, but it still counted as a plan. Even if its lone step was, in essence: rebel. That is to say, run away. Free yourself from the leashes that bind.

Clarence’s snickering prompted a cacophony of others to join in. Those who also seemed to think, “And what would that achieve?” The reaction, Flavio had to admit (even if only internally) was rather jarring and unexpected. He had genuinely believed that, like himself, all the other dogs would realize that the key to their “coolness” was escaping the humans. Most of whom, in this European milieu, didn’t even have air conditioning in their houses or apartments. Which meant, oftentimes, it felt cooler outside than it did in. So stuffy and oppressive were these edifices. Built, in fact, to trap heat rather than expel it. For they were constructed at a time when climate change wasn’t a consideration, not even a thought on the brain.

Not that it seemed to be much of one now either—at least in terms of “planning accordingly” for the future. One that was to be filled with so many more “dog days” ahead. And the truth was, people had to think about it now. Were given no choice but to think about it when the sweat was soaking their bodies and the heat was causing blackouts and other associated phenomena that interrupted “the business” of their daily lives. And it was a business. For every human had been conditioned to believe that the only thing a life was worth was making money. To do so, they had to get from Point A to Point B and back again each day. Only the heat had caused a general shutdown and unreliability on public transportation for the “average joe” to be able to do that.

Trapped inside their houses (along with the heat itself), some of them were restless enough to try to take their dogs out in that cruel weather. Flavio had been one of those dogs. His hair brimming forth in its heaviness as he struggled to amble down the sidewalk, let alone at the clipped pace his “owner” was going at. Using what was left of his strength, he jerked free of his “owner’s” grasp and ran to the far reaches of the park, where he had taken up with this lot and proceeded to extol the virtues of self-liberation. The other dogs, meanwhile, had only started to mock his proposal. And it was all Clarence’s fault for getting them riled up, for “poking a hole” in the scheme.

Clarence then took the “center floor” to tell the others that dogs had suffered worse when they weren’t living the “bliss” of the domesticated life. That the best thing to do was stay the course, ride out the heatwave and hope and pray that their “owners” might at least one day wake up and realize they should shell out the cash to have their “beloved” pet groomed. To help shave (and stave) off at least part of what was making them all so hot and miserable. Aside from the human behavior that had caused the Earth’s “warm-up” in the first place.

Flavio was horrified by Clarence’s easy acceptance of what could only be described as abuse. All in exchange for a few morsels and caresses here and there. But Flavio refused to accept it, and kept delivering his speech well as the sun went down, concluding with, “The dogs are hot, the dogs are hot—and they’re not gonna take it anymore. I’m a dog, goddammit, and my life has value!” Only a few of the remaining dogs in the audience picked up on the slight riff from Network, but those who didn’t were more inclined to join Flavio in his crusade, opting not to return to their “owners’” homes that night and start a brand new “pack” together. Right there, on the fringes of the park. A place where they had access to all the water and all the food they could scavenge.

Over the course of the summer, more and more dogs began to join Flavio’s “colony,” seeing that what he had said was right and true. Besides, they had heard all about this “rig” he had set up to allow dogs to shave their own hair. It was only an added bonus that humans frolicking, running or generally “existing” kept cutting themselves on it whenever they were being too self-involved to pay attention to their surroundings (in other words, pretty much all the time). And so, a summertime coup had been staged…and it was only mounting.