Here in the dog days of summer, I’m reminded of the time a mutt got the best of me.

While talking to a young woman last week, I learned that she attended my alma mater. That led to a discussion about our old campus days (hers were much more recent than mine).

That brought to mind the day a dog played me like a drum. I related the story to my new friend.

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Dogs were such a common sight on campus when I was there that it became almost a tradition during the ‘60s for a pooch to interrupt every home football game by running across the field of play. And it was always a different dog.

Still, I’d never given much thought to how much deference dogs were given in our college town. Not until one fateful day.

I was between classes early one afternoon and had time for a snack. I selected a honeybun and soft drink, took them outside the administration building and sat down on a brick wall.

The honeybun must have emitted some sort of hormone that attracts the canine species because a dog soon came walking up.

Actually, this particular dog didn’t walk normally. He had a pronounced limp, a limp so severe that fleas must have been holding on for dear life.

Anyway, this dog comes limping up and sits down on his haunches right in front of me.

It was a large brown dog of mixed parentage. There may have been some lab or shepherd or even boxer genes circulating in his veins.

One other thing I noticed – the dog was fat.

So, I looked at him looking at me. Or rather, he was looking more at the honeybun than anything else.

Being the cynical college student that I was, I set my jaw with the determination that the dog was having none of my honeybun. I took a bite and stared back with contempt.

Little did I know that this dog had been around the block more than once. He was no mere whelp playing a game over his head.

This guy took one look at me and read me like a book. His next move was a gamewinner.

The dog stirred, shifted his weight to his back legs, lifted his front paws up to chest level and begged.

I was a broken man. Even had I remained resolute in keeping my honeybun to myself, I couldn’t help but consider all the folks around me.

What would they think when they saw this poor, intelligent but down-on-his-luck pooch begging me for a morsel to eat? Would they view me an uncaring scrooge?

I knew the game was up. The dog had checkmated, slam-dunked, homered and TD’d with his first play. I was putty in his paws.

I pealed off a piece of honeybun and dropped it at the dog’s feet. He wolfed it down by the time I could take another bite.

I shared the remainder of the honeybun, down to the last morsel.

The cellophane wrapper was empty. I showed it to the dog and he licked off the remaining sugar.

I didn’t have to shoo the dog away. He knew from his vast experience in human relations that this job was complete.

The last time I saw the dog, he was limping slowly away, stomach sagging just a bit more.

But I know where he was headed. He was looking for another sucker to prey upon – another flunkie under the self-delusion that he’s smarter than a dog.

Larry Penkava, who has written Now and Then since 1994, learned a lot in college.