Some of those we come across while hiking through the forest trails make disparaging reference to the weather conditions, mostly of the 'too damn hot' variety. It is hot. That's why we have abandoned our usual daily afternoon walk in the ravine with Jackie and Jillie. By getting out early in the morning we avoid the most extreme of the day's temperatures. So we appreciate our ramble through the forest trails before the heat build-up and invariably also enjoy a cooling breeze.

I'm tempted to respond with an invitation to the complainers to cast their minds back a few months when they were freezing and complaining about the immense snowpack and icy conditions underfoot. But what's the point? No one needs lessons on how to temper dissatisfaction with the here-and-now; we all know in the back of our minds what the alternative to hot and humid summer days is. We just love to complain.

Our little dogs don't. Complain, that is. They accept whatever conditions are there and make the most of any situation. It's not that they don't react, because they do; they hesitate when they're faced with less than ideal conditions, but where we go they are determined to follow. And in discovering that they, like us, are able to handle a bit of weather challenge, they visibly relax with the understanding that reality isn't as problematic as anticipation.

Yesterday was hot. Yet it isn't the heat that strikes us as much as the glaring light of the sun. The angle of the sun is different and everything takes on a different cast. The contrast between filtered light and shade is astounding, actually. From one perspective sightlines are almost obliterated and from the other they're enhanced.

In the area beside the first of the bridges we cross over the creek at the bottom of the ravine, the sun-enhanced colour of the thimbleberries and the elderberry panicles almost leap out, directly into our central vision. On the other hand, when we approach an area where staghorn sumacs proliferate we can hardly make out their bright red candles ripening in the sun.

For the first time yet this summer we came across ragweed, so allergy sufferers would be well to avoid that part of the trail. We can be thankful that we don't fall into that category. Our little dog Riley used to react in mid-spring when pollen from the forest poplars was in circulation. He would sneeze repeatedly, until the season passed.

The wildflower succession continues. The buttercups are gone, the henbane receding, the daisies in short supply, but the cowvetch is now in its full flowering element as is yarrow and Queen Anne's Lace. It grows on either side of the forest trails to a quite modest size, but on the cusp of the ravine their size is enormous, each stalk rising to my 5' height, the flower-panicle heads themselves enormous.

When we got home after our trail circuit in the ravine, we made a quick stop in the garden as usual, Jackie and Jillie taking their jobs as guardians very seriously. They're aware of the presence of bees, hoverflies and butterflies visiting the flowers, and don't mind their presence. But when it comes to the presence of flying bugs and beetles they're suspicious and leery of their nearness, just as Button used to be.

Button had experienced some really nasty encounters with wasps and horseflies on some of our hikes through Gatineau Park with her. We once walked through a swarm of wasps before realizing what was happening, as we rounded a trail. I grabbed little Riley and ran with him, bush-whacking off trail to get around the whirling swarm but Button whom my husband had grabbed, had to have two of the stinging beasts pried off her forehead.

Perhaps dogs have ancestral memories of stinging insects, including mosquitoes. It would almost seem that way, watching Jillie's manoeuvres when they're around. Mosquitoes used to zero in on Button and avoid Riley, and we assumed the reason was associated with hormones. Jackie doesn't seem particularly troubled by mosquitoes, but Jillie becomes nervous in their presence.