His face felt like hot suede. Too hot and dry for canine health.

I reached down and touched his head. He snorted and panted faster, letting his tongue loll. I lowered my hand slowly and dangled it, receiving a long lick on the palm. But my skin remained bone dry.

The pants had turned into unhealthy-sounding clicks.

He tremored for a second, then worked his tongue over his arid face.

I kneeled and patted his head again, feeling a flat plate of thick, ridged bone beneath the glossy coat. He looked up at me with a bulldog's sad-clown dignity. The crust around his eyes looked calcified. The folds of his face were encrusted, too.

The nearest water source was the garden-hose outlet near the pond. I stood and gestured toward it.

“Come on, buster—hydration.”

The dog strained but stayed in place, head cocked, letting out raspy breaths that grew faster and faster and began to sound labored. I thought I saw his front legs quaver.

I began walking to the garden. Heard soft pads and looked behind me to see him following a few paces behind. Keeping to the left—a trained heeler?

But as I opened the gate to the pond, he hung back, remaining well outside the fence.

I went in. The pond water was greening due to the heat, but still clear. The koi were circling lazily. A couple of them saw me and approached the rim for feeding—babies who'd survived the surprise spawn of two summers ago. Most were over a foot long now. A few were colored brilliantly.

The dog just stood there, nose pointed at the water, suffering.

“Come on, pal.” I picked up the hose.

Nothing.

Uncoiling a couple of feet, I opened the valve. The rubber hummed between my fingers.

“C'mere. H2O.”

The dog stared through the gateway, panting, gasping, legs bowed with fatigue. But he didn't budge.

“C'mon, what's the problem, sport? Some kind of phobia, or don't you like seafood?”

Blink. He stayed in place. Swayed a bit.

The hose began to dribble. I dragged it out the gate, sprinkling plants as I walked.

The dog stood his ground until the water was an inch from his fleshy mouth. Then he craned his neck and began lapping. Then gulping. Then bathing in it, shaking his head and showering me before opening his maw and heading in for more.

Long time since the last tipple.

He shook and sprayed me again, turned his head away from the water, and sat.

When I returned from replacing the hose, he was still there, settled on his ample haunches.

“What now?” I said.

He ambled up to me, jauntily, a bit of roll in his stride. Putting his head against my leg, he kept it there.