My dog is looney-tunes. The proof is irrefutable and I have pictures to prove it.
The heat here is unbearable; well over twenty days above 100 degrees, only just this week dropping to a slightly-less-unbearable mid-90s. Our backyard grass passed away quietly some time ago (since the front yard grass was just planted, we are actually watering that every other day, causing our water bill to be upwards of $100 this month). The resulting savannah in the back swirls with the occasional hot dust storm. It feels like being inside a clothes dryer, minus the tossing part. I would not be shocked to see flying birds burst into flames at any moment.
Sensible humans (and animals) spend the day indoors, and failing the ability to be indoors, any shady spot will do. All the neighborhood outdoor dogs have common sense and stay in the shade.
My poor dumb dog demands to go outside every day at noon. He wants it, he loves it, he expects it. I get up to make a sandwich and he dashes for the back door. I let him out and he strolls out, like a white tiger surveying his domain, and sinks down regally into the crackling yellow grass in the sunniest possible spot, basking like a giant Sphinx. Sometimes he even sits on the porch, which I find utterly insane, because during the day, the porch is so hot I can't touch it barefoot without screaming in agony. Dozer might as well have a relaxing nap on hot coals.
There he sits, gazing into space, or I should say squinting into space because the sun is blinding, until I force him to come back in (about ten minutes later) before he gets overheated or sunburned. I mean, the dog's white as can be. I've seen him sunburned; he looks rather like a moldy tomato, with his bright red skin glowing through the white fur.
But I suppose the daily baking incinerates any fleas that are foolish enough to hang on him...