She comes out with me every day to help me photograph our fierce band of tiny hummingbirds. She doesn't like the heat, going straight to the largest shady patch in our yard, up against the west fence near a dirt patch where the shade from our maple and our neighbors fruit tree has killed the grass. Langley doesn't complain, only sits and watches me take aim with my bazooka of a camera at those impossibly hard to capture tiny dancers of the air. She drowses as the sun weaves her magic sleepy time spell across her, but soon she wanders over and lays her chin in my lap, raising her (now snow white) eyebrows at me and tells me with her eyes that she's very, very hot and can I please open the door so she can go in and throw herself down on our cool kitchen floor and bask in the air conditioning? I get up after scratching behind her ears (my favorite part of Langley), open the door for her and resume my task of trying to photograph those little feathered fighter jets dog fighting over the two feeders filled with sugary water.