This past Saturday my friend, Abby, and I dropped by the Carytown Kroger to grab a bottle of wine before going to our friend's birthday cookout. Normally trips to the grocery store don't amount to a blog post, but this time it did. You see, we saw a dog in a car, in the parking lot, on a 90° day. I am not fabricating: I pulled up my weather app, and it told me it was 91° F.

Now we weren't trying to be alarmists. We saw the pooch, who I'll call Buddy, in the back of the Mercedes, tongue out, happy as could be, but nevertheless, locked in a car with the windows cracked while I sweated in a tank top (what's new). Also, only weeks before, I read the Washington Post's long-form article on children left in cars (who generally die). One fact that stuck with me from that article was a child who died in a car on a 60° day in March. Cars are ovens.

Abby and I decided the dog's owner could have run into the store and would be right back. We weren't worried until we came out with our wine fifteen minutes later and Buddy was still there. We debated what to do.