There’s a special, sticky guilt that comes with skipping the proper walk. You look at your dog, who’s lying on the cool tiles like a discarded rug, and think, “I’ve failed you as a guardian of exercise.” Then he farts. And you realise he’s perfectly happy just being a warm lump.
But then, at 9 p.m., when the sun finally gives up and a breeze rolls in, you both feel that second wind. The lead gets clipped on with a satisfying click, and the world feels fresh again. That night-time walk, with the stars out and the pavements cool, is your victory lap. You’ve survived another “too hot to walk the dog” day in the UK. And hey, you both deserve a cold beer and a belly rub.
