Third Act With Pattie

Category: 🐕 Sassy Says

Life according to Sassy — a slightly confused but highly observant dog trying to understand what her humans are doing now that they’re both home all the time.

  • Humans Are Weird About Poop

    I do not understand humans.

    Specifically, I do not understand their obsession with poop.

    I poop.

    This is not news.

    I have been doing it my entire life.

    I find a suitable location.

    I sniff.

    I circle.

    Sometimes I reconsider.

    I sniff somewhere else.

    I circle again.

    Eventually, I poop.

    Then, to properly memorialize the occasion,

    I kick a little grass and dirt in its general direction with my hind legs.

    A marker, if you will.

    My work here is done.

    As far as I am concerned, my responsibilities have now been fulfilled.

    But apparently, this is when Management’s responsibilities begin.

    She follows behind me carrying a roll of little pink bags

    specifically designed for poop.

    Think about that.

    Humans manufacture special bags.

    For poop.

    Then they BUY the special bags.

    For poop.

    Then they carry the special bags around waiting for someone to poop.

    And when I finally do,

    Management puts her HAND inside one of those bags,

    PICKS UP THE POOP,

    turns the bag inside out,

    ties it in a little knot –

    and carries it around with her.

    Humans are disgusting.

    Now, Management and I –

    try to walk about two miles out on the big road in the mornings.

    She calls it exercise.

    I call it a S’Walk.

    Short for Sassy Walk –

    because I think most words short start that way.

    I have four legs and am an athlete.

    Management… does her best.

    The problem is that sometimes I poop early in the walk.

    Management apparently does not enjoy carrying a warm, fragrant

    little bag for the rest of the S’Walk.

    Frankly, this is the first sensible thing she has ever said

    about the entire process.

    So she has developed a “system”.

    She bags my contribution,

    leaves the little pink bag somewhere she will see it,

    and picks it up on our way back home.

    I don’t understand why we picked it up in the first place

    if we’re just going to put it back down.

    But nobody asks me.

    This morning, we followed the usual procedure.

    I pooped.

    Management bagged.

    Management deposited.

    We continued our S’WALK.

    Short for Sassy Walk –

    I think most words should start that way.

    And when we came back…

    MY POOP WAS GONE.

    Someone had taken it.

    A neighbor had apparently seen my little pink bag

    and disposed of it.

    Wait.

    Are there POOP POLICE?

    Is this a thing?

    Because now I have even more questions.

    Why did another human want my poop?

    Was it bothering them?

    Did they think Management had abandoned it?

    Was it interfering with the natural beauty of our little gravel road?

    Or…

    and I don’t want to alarm anyone –

    is there a black market

    for high-quality Wonderdog poop

    that I have not been told about?

    Because if somebody is making money from this,

    I want treats.

    Management, meanwhile, was horrified.

    She immediately began explaining to absolutely no one

    that she had been coming back for it.

    She would NEVER leave a poop bag on the side of the road.

    She is a RESPONSIBLE DOG OWNER.

    She has a SYSTEM.

    I let her continue.

    Because I would like the record to reflect

    that I personally fulfilled every single one of my responsibilities

    in this matter.

    I found an appropriate location.

    I pooped.

    I even marked the occasion.

    Everything that happened after that was a Management decision.

    So, to whichever neighbor “policed” the little pink bag this morning:

    Thank you.

    Management really was coming back for it.

    And if you happen to see another one alongside our road someday,

    please don’t be alarmed.

    It isn’t litter.

    It isn’t abandoned.

    It is apparently part of a highly sophisticated

    waste-management system.

    I don’t understand it either.

    I am a very good girl. 🐾

    — Sassy

  • MAY FLIES IN JUNE — THAT IS A HARD NO

    MAY FLIES IN JUNE — THAT IS A HARD NO

    OH MY BONE at the flies.

    Is the lake broken?

    The black flying flies.

    They are everywhere.

    They do not stop.

    I am convinced they exist for one purpose and one purpose only:

    To torment me personally.

    Let me tell you about May flies.

    They are very special flies that live in the lake as regular bugs for two whole years.

    Then one day they explode out of the water and become flying bugs.

    I know these are facts because Mama told me.

    Do I fully trust Mama’s explanation?

    Not entirely.

    She also says I don’t need to bark at suspect squirrels.

    So her judgment is questionable.

    There are hundreds of them.

    Thousands of them.

    Possibly millions.

    Maybe even billions.

    I have not counted them all because I am only one dog.

    But I have counted enough

    to know I am right.

    They hide in the grass.

    They hide in the trees.

    They hide on the boathouse.

    They hide on the windows.

    Basically, if a thing exists,

    there is probably a fly sitting on it.

    Then the moment you find the perfect place to squat…

    HERE THEY COME.

    Like somebody blew a whistle.

    Suddenly they are flying around your head.

    Flying in your ears.

    Landing on your legs.

    Making you question all your life choices.

    And let me tell you something else.

    They smell bottoms.

    I have seen it.

    Now, a good bottom sniff is important.

    To dogs.

    That is a professional courtesy.

    A respectful exchange of information.

    Flies have no business participating.

    They have not earned that privilege.

    The worst part is the windows.

    They stick to the glass.

    I go over to investigate.

    They jump off.

    Then they fly directly at my face.

    Which feels aggressive.

    And possibly personal.

    Mama explained that after spending two years in the lake,

    they only live for a day or two.

    A DAY OR TWO.

    Imagine waiting two years for anything.

    Then spending your entire adult life being annoying.

    That is a terrible life plan.

    I reported this situation to Management.

    Management said,

    “They’re just mayflies, Sassy.”

    Which is exactly the sort of thing Management says

    when they have no intention of fixing the problem.

    Also, I have one very important question.

    If these are MAY flies…

    Why are they still here in JUNE?

    I am beginning to think nobody is enforcing the rules.

    The only good thing about mayflies is that eventually they die.

    Which leads me to believe that even the all-powerful one—

    you know, D-O-G spelled backwards—

    has reached the end of His patience with them too.

    Until then,

    I will continue my patrols,

    file my complaints,

    and conduct all outdoor business under protest.

    Sincerely,

    Sassy 🐾

    A Very Good Girl Under Attack

  • Sassy Goes to the Cell Phone Store…Almost

    Sassy Goes to the Cell Phone Store…Almost

    Y’all, I do not understand humans.

    The cell phone store convinces them they needed newer phones…

    and then convinces them I wasn’t allowed inside.

    What the wagging tail is that about?

    So here’s what happened.

    A few days ago, we went to the cell phone store. Me, Mama, and my great niece.

    Well.
    They went.

    I was informed — very rudely, I might add — that I was “not allowed inside this location.”

    Interesting.

    Because last time I went to the cell phone store, everyone acted like I was a celebrity.

    There were pets and scratches and at least three people telling me I was “a Very Good Girl,” which, frankly, should have earned me store membership privileges for life.

    But suddenly:
    “No dogs allowed.”

    Excuse me?

    I have been to Home Depot.
    Lowe’s.
    TJ Max – oh I love TJ Max.
    Wally World.
    The bank.
    And once, against my better judgment, Hobby Lobby.

    But apparently the cell phone people have other standards now.

    So I waited in the car.

    Now before anyone gets dramatic:

    Mama leaves the air running.

    Sometimes the windows are cracked too so I can supervise the parking lot and monitor important neighborhood smells.

    And let me tell you something.

    Humans are WEIRD around dogs in cars.

    Every single person walking by looked at me like I was either:

    1. deeply oppressed,
    2. preparing a jailbreak,
      or
    3. about to give an interview about unsafe working conditions.

    Ma’am.

    I am lying on a cooled leather seat covered in soft cozy blankets

     Grooving to smooth jazz

    with climate control and

    unrestricted access to french fry smells,

    Honey, I am fine.

    Meanwhile, inside the store, the Younger Humans were apparently looking at phones.

    Again.

    Apparently the one they already had — the glowing rectangle they’ve been emotionally attached to for eleven straight months — is suddenly unacceptable because this rectangle has “better cameras” and “more storage.”

    Every year humans convince themselves the newest phone will somehow change their lives.

    And every year they still walk into poles while texting.

    I simply do not understand this generation’s emotional attachment to rectangles.

    They stare at them constantly.
    They carry them everywhere.
    They panic if they lose one for eleven seconds.
    And according to Mama, they use them to “leave messages for friends.”

    Which seems unnecessarily complicated.

    Why type paragraphs into glowing rectangles when you could just eave pee mail like civilized creatures?

    And do not even get me started on talking into the thing.

    Every time Daddy calls Mama, he says:
    “Put Sassy on the phone.”

    Dude.

    I do not understand the expectations here.

    I hear him doing the sweet talk:
    “Hiiiiii Sassy girl…”
    “Whatcha doin’?”
    “Are you being good?”

    Meanwhile I am sitting there staring at the phone like:
    …what exactly is my role in this conversation?

    Am I supposed to discuss neighborhood squirrels?
    Give updates on my snack schedule?
    Review the quality of the blankets in the back seat?

    Honestly, the entire system feels very disorganized.

    Finally,  

    and this is the last thing I’m going to say about these phones,

    why is everyone always looking down now?

    Nobody is paying attention anymore.

    A squirrel could launch an entire criminal enterprise in the parking lot, and these people would miss it because they’re busy poking glowing rectangles with their thumbs.

    Meanwhile, from my perfectly climate-controlled observation post, I noticed:
    three spilled drinks,
    a suspicious pigeon,
    a toddler covered in cracker residue,
    two unattended shopping carts,
    and a lady carrying Chick-fil-A.

    I am not saying I was the only responsible adult in that parking lot.

    But honestly, at this point, I feel like I carried the entire surveillance operation by myself.

    🐾 Sassy

    P.S. Today we went to TJ Maxx and Hobby Lobby. They had no concerns about my presence whatsoever.

    Funny how that works. 🐾

  • Domestic Squatting: A Personal Tail

    Domestic Squatting: A Personal Tail

    For the past FIVE days, my best frienemy Hennie has been staying at my house.

    Hennie belongs to Mama’s granddaughter, my niece.
    Which, according to Mama’s completely unverified family math, makes ME Hennie’s great aunt.

    Honestly, that feels correct.
    I do have strong opinions and chronic disappointment in other people’s decisions.

    Also, I am older. 

    Now Hennie is a white chiweenie (half chihuahua and half weenie dog?) and only weighs seven pounds, but she has the confidence of a much larger problem.

    And listen…
    I love her.

    But also?

    She is exhausting.

    From the minute she arrives, the entire household becomes chaos.
    We run.
    We wrestle.
    We bark at things that are absolutely our business.
    We conduct perimeter security like two emotionally unstable park rangers.

    At first, it’s fun.

    Then eventually Hennie remembers who she is.

    A tiny loud girl with absolutely no boundaries.

    For example:
    Hennie insists we all go outside every fourteen minutes.

    Urgently.

    Like there has been a national emergency involving squirrels.

    So out we go.

    Then the second Mama opens the door to let us back in, Hennie suddenly becomes “a sunbathing girl.”

    She refuses to move.

    Just lays there in the blazing heat with her tiny legs stretched out.  Honestly, Hennie is less dog outside and more tiny desert lizard with anxiety.

    Meanwhile it is eighty-something degrees.

    I am hot.

    Hennie is laying in direct sunlight like she’s trying to recharge herself.

    And another thing…

    When we do go back inside she steals MY section of the sectional.

    MY section.

    My special, reserved section that no human even tries to steal.

    But little Hennie has her own rules.

    She also tries to steal my food.

    Now let me explain something.

    Hennie has her OWN bowl.
    Her OWN food.
    Her OWN tiny portions.

    She weighs seven pounds.
    She needs approximately ten pieces of kibble and a positive attitude to survive.

    But every single time Mama feeds us, Hennie immediately abandons her own bowl and comes trotting over to mine like she’s conducting a quality control inspection.

    Then she eats my food while I stand there in complete disbelief.

    I swear.
    One day I am going to put her in her place.

    Probably.

    Maybe.

    Unless she barks first.

    And the attitude.

    The audacity.

    At one point she looked directly at me like:
    “Oh. Were you eating this?”

    Mama laughed.
    Daddy laughed.
    I did not laugh. 

    I was one inconvenience away from legal representation.

    By this morning, I had stopped fighting back.
    I would just stand there staring at Hennie.

    There is apparently a proverb about guests and fish becoming a problem after three days.

    By Day Five, I would like to formally support that research.

    But then…

    Today…

    We took Hennie home, back to her own house.

    Honestly?
    The ride home was heavenly.

    No barking.
    No sectional theft.
    No tiny backyard hostage situations.
    No food-related betrayals.

    Peace.

    When we got home…

    I walked directly to my section …
    turned around three times for emotional reasons…
    collapsed dramatically into my rightful place…
    and slept like a woman who had finally reclaimed her nation.

    But that was hours ago.

    And now I miss her.

    A little.

    Apparently I’d gotten used to the chaos.

    💗🐾
    Sassy


    Great Aunt
    Section Owner
    Victim of Domestic Squatting

    If you’ve ever had your favorite seat stolen by a guest, I expect your full support in the comments.

    And subscribe, obviously. Somebody around here needs to be on my side. 💗🐾

  • 🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    I would first like the record to reflect that the parents left me behind.

    Again.

    Discarded while they wandered off on what I assume was a completely unnecessary vacation involving restaurants that don’t allow dogs and beds that probably weren’t even properly covered in fur.

    I think it’s important to report the facts.

    The parents insist on calling the place they leave me “the farm.”

    First of all…

    it is NOT a farm.

    The way the parents say it, you’d think we were out there being free-range harvested.

    Frankly, their branding is terrible.

    This place is so much better than a farm.

    We call it:
    being on campus.

    Because this place was very clearly designed specifically for dogs.

    Finally.

    Someone with vision.

    We have our own house.

    Not a kennel.
    Not a shed.
    Not one of those sad little concrete situations where everyone slowly loses the will to live.

    There are fields and meadows, and woodsy areas, and…

    A HOUSE.

    A big house.
    Like two-legged people houses.

    Except cleaner and emotionally better regulated.

    There are leather couches.
    A fireplace.
    A kitchen.

    Of course, we have staff to prepare the meals because none of us have thumbs…               and frankly that feels like a design flaw we should address as a species.

    There are also outdoor recreation areas, structured activities, enrichment programs, leadership development, and ongoing educational opportunities.

    Mama calls it “training.”

    That is adorable.

    This is higher education.

    I arrived fully prepared to carry the burden of abandonment with dignity, restraint, and just enough sadness to make everyone uncomfortable.

    Emotional discipline is important.

    Instead…

    The Boxer was there.

    Tiny White Floof had already positioned herself on the couch like a tiny retired queen judging the entire campus.

    Mr. Golden Retriever Class President was once again running around greeting everyone like an unpaid cruise director fueled entirely by optimism.

    Then there was the doodle.

    There is always a doodle.

    This one looked like he had consumed three energy drinks and half a motivational podcast before breakfast.

    Honestly, things escalated quickly.

    There was running.
    There was training.
    There were organized social activities.

    At one point, I became so involved in campus life that I briefly forgot I had parents.

    In my defense, there was a lot going on.

    The faculty did not help matters.

    Apparently I was “a very good girl.”

    Repeatedly.

    Frankly, I found the entire thing manipulative.

    Effective.
    But manipulative.

    Time moves differently on campus.  

    One minute you’re being abandoned by your family.

    The next minute you’re supervising outdoor activities and helping maintain doodle stability.

    Then suddenly it was time to go home.

    Apparently, Mama expected some sort of emotional reunion scene when she returned.

    Probably tears.

    Possibly dramatic whining.

    Maybe me launching myself into her arms while soft music played in the background.

    Honestly, she may have built the whole thing up in her head.

    Instead, I was outside managing a rapidly escalating doodle situation.

    Frankly, the campus was one poorly timed squirrel away from complete disorder.

    It was not an appropriate moment for emotional reunions.

    Plus, I have my pride.

    Now to be clear…

    I DID miss them.

    Usually during brief quiet moments between activities.

    Or when nobody was actively throwing something.

    But overall, I adjusted extremely well to campus life.

    Mama always tells people:
    “Sassy LOVES going to the farm!”

    This is an outrageous oversimplification.

    What I love is:
    structure,
    leadership opportunities,
    my friends,
    and whatever magical system they have in place that results in twenty dogs behaving better than one Daddy trying to grill hamburgers.

    Also naps in the sun.

    I love those too.

    By the time they got me home, I was exhausted in the deeply satisfying way one becomes exhausted after a successful semester away.

    I slept the entire evening.

    At one point Mama checked to make sure I was still breathing..

    which honestly felt over-dramatic.

    Then the next morning, Mama casually used the word “campus” in conversation, and I would like it officially noted that I was standing at the front door with one toy, two emotional support tennis balls, and complete emotional readiness before she finished the sentence.

    Purely precautionary.

    Leadership is a responsibility, not a hobby

    — Sassy 🐾

    Off the record…

    Hey girl…

    I know your parents left you while they went somewhere with my parents.

    I wish you’d been at my campus this weekend. We could’ve used another very good girl.

    Did your weekend get this wild too?