Hot as hell

I don't think hell ever reached the temperatures that boil patrons waiting for subway trains during hot New York summer days. Bee's Columbia MBA friend had a great idea to put air-conditioned booths in the subways where people could pop in a quarter and get two minutes of clean, cool air while waiting for the train. Of course, you'd have to put in, like, a hundred booths per subway platform to satisfy demand. But it was a good idea.

As a French Bulldog with a short snout and thick black hair, I drool and wheeze my way down the block. As a human, Bee sweats through about three t-shirts a day. Aye just goes to the beach, the only place in her opinion where people should really spend their lives. Cee is too European to sweat. She perspires. Dee, has to wear suits to work, but I haven't seen her wear a jacket—or a skirt that reaches to mid-thigh—since Memorial Day. I'm sure those Citigroup traders love that.

One thing that makes Bee cringe is when hot, sweaty people touch her on public transportation. Their nasty DNA rubbing up against her just dry-cleaned whites. Strangers' body fluids contacting another's clammy skin is such a New York thing, representative of how extremely close NYC living quarters are, and how rare good, spacious real estate is to come by.

Makes you want to stay in your crate until Halloween.