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.

  • Thirty-Five Guests and Inappropriate Hinges

    Hubby’s oldest child, Senior S’kiddle to me,  is getting married next month.

    In our excitement, we offered our lake home as the location for the rehearsal dinner. A low country boil for 35 people.

    A “casual” outdoor affair.

    I am learning that “casual” is a word that leaves out a great deal of information.

    Like how many people with power tools will need to invade your house and your sanity before “casual” begins.

    When we made the offer, we had not even fully moved in. There were still boxes to unpack and plenty of improvements we had put on the back burner when this was just our weekend place.

    Apparently, the back burner has now been turned up to HIGH.

    First, we needed a shop.

    You might reasonably wonder what a shop has to do with a rehearsal dinner.

    In our case? Everything.

    The contents of the old shop were taking up space in the house and around the grounds.  

    All that stuff needed somewhere to live that wasn’t where our guests were going to eat. 

    Preferably somewhere that made this look like a lake home instead of a junkyard.

    The tree guys cleared the trees that were narrowing the driveway and taking up the space we needed for parking.

    The next crew put in drainage and a retaining wall so the future shop wouldn’t float away.

    The concrete guys broke up the cracked concrete and poured newer, better, bigger concrete for the shop and extra parking.

    Then… nothing

    A quiet week or two while the concrete cured.

    Have you ever waited for concrete to reach the proper degree of concreteness?

    There is not much to report.

    I looked at it.

    It looked pretty concrete to me.

    Apparently, it needed to be more concrete.

    I waited some more.

    When it was finally baked to perfection, the shop builders arrived.

    Then the electricians.

    Then the insulation guys.

    Then the air-conditioning guys.

    And finally, hubby and I could move all the stuff into the shop.

    Mostly hubby.

    I helped as much as I could.

    Well, as much as I was asked to.

    It seems that at four foot nothing, with T-rex arms, I am not the first choice for the heavy-lifting team.

    But the stuff was finally out of the way.

    We were making progress.

    Sassy, however, was having a terrible time.

    Every arrival brought another round of barking, crying, and hiding.

    Strangers in the driveway. Strangers around the house. Strangers making loud noises.

    And just when one group left, another arrived.

    As far as Sassy was concerned, we had developed a serious security problem, and Management kept letting it in.

    Of all of us, she has enjoyed this process the least.

    I’m fairly certain she is keeping a list of trespassers for the police report she intends to file.

    Management will be named as an accomplice. 

    Meanwhile, the inside of the house was getting attention, too.

    New wiring downstairs and an absolutely fabulous new mirror in the master bath brought more guys.

    Plumbing issues brought more guys.

    Even the shower doors required their own special guy.

    Between all of this, hubby was not so quietly replacing the kitchen cabinet doors because the hinges were on the outside.  And the knobs were turned the wrong way.

    I did not know that was such a faux pas.

    Apparently, we had been living with inappropriate hinges and sideways knobs.

    Thankfully, that situation has been addressed before company arrives.

    Once the shop was finished and filled, work began on the retaining wall around the house.

    But first, a tree stump had to come out and the rose bushes had to move.

    Then we discovered that the original garden area had been filled with plastic, metal, and assorted other things instead of proper fill dirt.

    That was a surprise.

    Not a good surprise, like finding money in a coat pocket.

    But not a dead body, either.

    Somewhere in between.

    So there was more digging, proper drainage, and actual dirt.

    No plants yet.

    We will get to that ourselves.

    There was also the beautiful stairway hubby built from the house to the dock. That deserves a post of its own, so I won’t give too much away here.

    But between those stairs and last year’s deck repairs, we had a lot of raw wood.

    Enter the painters.

    The boss of this crew is a woman – the first female craftsperson in our parade of arrivals.

    She and her assistant made all that raw wood look like it belonged in a magazine.

    Sassy still wants them prosecuted, but I would hire them again.

    Once everything was properly stained, we looked up and realized some tree limbs hanging over the deck needed to be cut.

    Of course we did.

    So those guys came.

    Sassy filed another complaint.

    Once she recovered from the sky falling down.

    Finally,  the original concrete guys returned to tackle the broken concrete on the lake side of the house.

    In just a few days, they replaced the crooked, cracked mess with a beautiful paver patio.

    The kind of patio where one would entertain guests.

    Casually.

    Those few days, however, felt like years.

    Jackhammers do not improve with prolonged exposure.

    Somewhere in all of this, I had cataract surgery.

    I am now two weeks out, and despite all my misgivings, it went very well.

    For the first few days, I could see nothing but light out of that eye.

    I don’t know what made me think I would come out with immediate 20/20 vision, but apparently I was planning a miracle.

    Still, in the grand scheme of our current life, the surgery has been a mere blip.

    Which is quite a statement, considering how much worrying I did beforehand.

    Next week, someone is coming to rescreen the screened-in porch.

    Then hubby and I can do the planting.

    And the power washing.

    And whatever else we discover needs doing before 35 people arrive for this casual event.

    Hubby has a two-page list.

    So if I haven’t been writing much, now you know why.

    Every time I think we’re finished, hubby checks his list.

    Apparently, we are not finished.

    We are happy that we get to be such a big part of  Senior S’kiddle‘s wedding.

    We look forward to having everyone here to celebrate the bride and groom and this new chapter in their lives.

    I admit that a wedding deadline has done wonders for the home-improvement schedule.

    By the time everyone arrives, the tools will be gone and the plants will be planted.

    Sassy will be away on campus, which is probably best for everyone’s criminal record.

    And if someone looks around and says, “What a lovely place for a casual little get-together,” I will smile.

    But I may need a margarita first.

    Who am I kidding? I already need a margarita.

    -Pattie

  • Sassy Walks: The Mystery of the Catchybears

    For those of you who don’t know,

    when Mama was sick,

    it was my job to take her for walks.

    It was not an easy job.

    She was tired all the time.

    Some days…

    she could barely make it down the steps.

    So I came up with a plan.

    I convinced her that I could not go #2

    unless she took me for a walk.

    Mama was not using her best brain at the time.

    But the plan worked.

    And apparently, I am still in charge of walking her.

    The problem is,

    Mama now wants to take long walks.

    We used to walk to the mailbox.

    It was a perfectly good arrangement.

    We walked down the road.

    We checked the neighborhood.

    We investigated any suspicious smells.

    We collected the mail.

    Then we came home.

    Job completed.

    Paperwork filed.

    But now Mama says we are going to walk—

    THREE MILES.

    She says we are getting older and need to stay in shape.

    She says we need to build our endurance.

    She says we need to burn calories.

    I think Mama is projecting.

    I am a sleek and shiny 27 pounds.

    It looks very good on me.

    Also, I am not old.

    I am only four.

    That is 28 in people years,

    which puts me squarely in the prime of my life.

    Mama is considerably farther along.

    Still, she is determined.

    We have not actually walked three miles yet.

    We are “working up to it.”

    This means that every time we go for a walk,

    Mama sneaks a little more road into it.

    Today we walked 2.5 miles.

    I believe 2.5 miles should be the legal limit

    for a 27-pound dog.

    Even a Wonder Dog.

    During these walks, Mama talks.

    She likes to tell me about when she was a runner.

    She says she ran 5Ks.

    And 10Ks.

    And half marathons.

    Whatever those are.

    Not to be disrespectful, but…

    I have my doubts.

    Have you ever seen my Mama?

    She has only two short, stubby legs.

    Who could run any distance on those?

    And I hate to say it, but her coordination is sketchy.

    Very sketchy.

    Sometimes I am walking politely beside her,

    like a very good dog does,

    and she gets her feet twisted up

    and bumps into me.

    Running with twisty feet

    on two short legs

    sounds more like imagination

    than history.

    But we keep walking.

    There is a little farm out on the main road,

    and it is the best part of the whole trip.

    They have animals I recognize.

    Goats.

    Sheep.

    Donkeys.

    And one very loud, very opinionated dog.

    I keep an eye on all of them.

    Not because I am nosy.

    Because someone has to know

    what is happening in the neighborhood.

    But today, something was different.

    There were several animals wandering around in the grass

    that i had never seen before.

    They were short and stout,

    with round bodies,

    four stubby legs

    and faces that looked a little bit like bears.

    But not exactly.

    They were eating grass

    and minding their own business

    as though they belonged there.

    Mama called them “catchybears.”

    I swear that is what she said.

    Catchy.

    Bears.

    I studied them carefully.

    What do they catch?

    Are they bears who catch things?

    Or are they something that catches bears?

    And if they catch bears,

    why are they standing in a pasture eating grass?

    Perhaps “catchybear” is their occupation.

    Maybe they are waiting for a bear to wander by.

    Or maybe they have already caught all the bears,

    which would explain why there weren’t any.

    There was a lot to consider.

    I would have liked to stay longer

    and continue my investigation,

    but Mama said we had to keep moving.

    Something about maintaining our pace.

    So I left the catchybears behind

    and continued walking my short-legged,

    poorly coordinated human down the road.

    Because walking Mama may be my official job.

    But monitoring unusual neighborhood animals

    is also important work.

    Especially when nobody can explain

    what a catchybear catches.

    Oh. My. Dog.

    I am still a very good girl. 

    -Sassy 🐾

  • 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. 🐾