“Mmm?” I blink up from my biscuit dough, hands in flour, forehead greasy enough to fry zucchini on.

Lissie, my neighbor, is half off her deck chair, peering down toward the water. “Duke? Where’s Duke? He’s been gone ages.”

She’s right. Half an hour, easy. Out past the sliding doors there’s a whole flotilla of paddleboards and kids bobbing on floats.

Oh, God. Don’t tell me Duke has followed some kid out onto a paddleboard. Please say he’s not right now, happily snapping selfies on a paddleboard in the middle of Lake Lanier, grinning up at the sky, rolling around on some sunbaked wily kid’s towel thinking, “This is living!”

Then I spot a splash of white under the hydrangeas.

Duke is stretched out flat on the moss, terrifyingly flat, shoulders locked, Flintstone skull. I know that pose. I know exactly what he’s spotted. I bang on the glass. “DUKE. NO CORN COB.”

He raises his head, looking behind himself in a “Sorry, which Duke would this be?” way. I crash both fists into the dough and tear out.

“Duke is the Corn Cob Predator,” I tell Lissie as I break into a jog down the lawn, flour flying everywhere. The speed at which that dog can find a corn cob. Scarily annoying.

This is the glory and agony of cookout season. The thrill of seeing the dogs trot out ahead of you, tails flying, basking in the adulation of your guests as someone says, “Oh my God, what a beauty!”

And the low-level panic that comes with Labor Day with your dog: the trash has no lid, the corn cobs are in the bin, the leftover sausages are on the patio, someone dropped a burger bun on the patio, and your cousin from Florida is about to change Duke’s life with a full chicken thigh.

Cookouts are peak dog danger.

The Cookout Rules Nobody Tells You

Case in point: the current scene unfolding on my patio.

“Can dogs have ribs, Uncle Nick?”

“Sure, can. Bones are good for their jaws.”

“Bubba. You will personally be paying the vet bill.”

• Feed your dog before guests come over. Not during, and definitely not after. Hungry dogs gravitate toward places hungry dogs do not belong, like the appetizer table and your mother’s lemon pie.
• Bring your pet on the deck. They’re a bloodhound for anything you missed inside.
• Park them on a picnic blanket with a chew long enough to matter. Rub their velvet head. Drink your wine. That’s the move.
• Lid on the trash can, or a bungee, or a cousin standing on it.

Lake Day, But Make It Survivable

Lake Day and Labor Day with your dog go together like Barbie and Ken. Summer and spindrift. Chilled pinot and mocktails. You’re either on a lake or swimming in a pool.

Wherever you put in, here’s what I holler from the dock while I’m sweating over a bowl of cheese puffs, which is not what the puppy books tell you.

Life jacket with a grab handle. Yes, even if your dog swims like Michael Phelps.

Towel on the pontoon deck, or pick his paws up every so often to check they aren’t cooking. A cooling mat is a worthy purchase. 

Blue-green algae is the real one to watch for, especially after a stretch of hot, still weather like we’ve had. Quick advisory check before you launch. Takes two minutes, and it’s worth it.

Bring your own water and a collapsible bowl. Duke will drink the lake until he brings the lake back up in the truck.

Don’t just towel your dog off. Wash the lake out of his coat and dry his ears all the way. Lake water is germy and ears are where it settles.

Last Call on a Hot Dog Mom Summer

Labor Day weekend is last drinks for the season, and it has nothing to do with the temperature. 

It’s the school bell. It’s hockey and Science Club climbing back onto the calendar. It’s the end of the long lazy stretch where Duke followed me around the yard all day. And the start of him napping under the desk in my office again.

But the fun isn’t over around here. 

Summer is lake and pool and beach, sure, but it’s also scorched pavement, ticks, and a dog panting through a bowl of water in one go. Fall’s just as good, different good. Paw-stretching season. Hiking season. Porch football season.

The Porch Part

Sunday night. Everyone’s gone, and the house is so quiet I can hear the ice machine.

Duke’s lying at my feet, dead out, puffing little breaths through his nose. I brush him from his ears to his tail and go over every inch of him for ticks. 

My husband brings me cheerwine and bourbon in a tall glass, with a wedge of lime. He brings our son an Athens Cooler, which is basically pineapple juice, and a jalapeño swirl on a cocktail stick. The light through the windows is orange. Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” starts playing.

Getaway Labor Day with your dog

If it wouldn’t be Labor Day without a spontaneous road trip, here are three I’ve vetted for what I’d call five-star dog-friendly. No potted-plant weird looks in the lobby. (More in our 8 Dog-Friendly Southern Hotels roundup.)

Greenville, SC is the easy one for the Charlotte crew (under two hours away). Extended Stay America Premier Suites Greenville Woodruff Rd takes two pets of any size for $25 per pet, per night, and it’s built for a dog trip rather than tolerating one: a full kitchenette, outdoor grills, and a grassy perimeter for potty breaks. It’s about a ten-minute drive from Haywood Mall and roughly fifteen minutes from Falls Park, so plan on driving into downtown rather than walking to it.

Chattanooga, TN, pulls double duty for Atlanta and Nashville crowds. Hotel Indigo Chattanooga, Downtown, takes two pets of any size for $50 a stay, and it’s the rare hotel where your dog isn’t banished to a patio. Dogs are welcome throughout the restaurant and bar, not just outside. West Village is an easy walk from the lobby for coffee and dinner with a leash in hand.

And if you’re going all out: The Lodge at Primland, in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, about two hours from Charlotte, is tucked onto a 12,000-acre estate with fly-fishing, hiking, and a private observatory for stargazing after the dog’s worn out. Two dogs are welcome in select Lodge rooms or the Fairway Cottages for $150 a stay, and the property leans more elevated-outdoorsy than roughing-it, so pack accordingly.

Let your dog roll over for another belly rub. Get your glass out of the fridge, slide the mosquito door open, and enjoy the last hot night of summer.