The term "dog days" seems to have lost its true meaning somewhere along the way, but that's alright. When we hear the words we know exactly what's meant: hot, sultry, still days; nights when even a thin sheet seems oppressive and we gasp for air and yearn for sleep. The dog days are an uncomfortable, unproductive pause while the Earth catches its breath after the paroxysm of growth from early spring through early summer. From the first thrust of the purple and white crocuses in April, through the orange blossoming of the tiger lilies in early July, the Earth fairly trembles with a near-volcanic explosion of green life. Then it's done, and all is thick and verdant, and then come the dog days and the dying begins -- the grasses go limp and begin to brown in the heat, the leaves hang listlessly, the ponds lie warm and lifeless. And the fishing is awful.

Painter pal Dave Tibbetts reports that he spent a few fishless days on Kennebago. I did the same at Upper Dam. One evening on my favorite pond, the afternoon wind had vanished, the surface of the water was a sheet of glass, the air was so still you could hear a frog scratch his ear clear across the pond. A family of coyotes caterwauled somewhere in the woods. Conditions were perfect for an evening rise -- except there was none. Not a single caddis or drake dimpled the water, not a single trout quickened the angler's pulse with a rise ring. Dead. Dog days.

It is in the mid-July to early-September period that Sirius, the Dog Star, rises and sets with the sun, hence the expression. Not many people nowadays seem to remember that, nor do they associate the doldrums with that region of the Earth near the equator where winds are habitually light and where mariners in the age of sail spent long, listless days watching the canvas flap uselessly from the yards. But when someone mentions dog days, or says he's in the doldrums, we know exactly what he means.

It means we forget about fishing for a month.