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.

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. 💗🐾

Type your email…

May 21, 2026
🐾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?

May 9, 2026
The Wonderdog Strike: Until Further Notice

Let me explain how we got here.

Earlier today…
there was a situation.

A stranger approached the house.
There was movement.
There were sounds.
There was… paperwork.

I took action.

I alerted.
I warned.
I escalated appropriately.

Management’s response?

“Relax.”

Relax.

And that is when I knew…

this “city house” organization no longer values my contributions.

Also—while we’re discussing concerns—
stranger people keep coming to this house.

They walk through.
They look at things.
They touch things.

Things that were very clearly
not previously up for discussion.

And again…

paperwork.

This does not happen at the lake.

Just noting that.

So today, I have made a decision.

I will be lying in bed.

Not my bed.
That would suggest cooperation.

Their bed.

“Why would the Wonderdog lie in bed all day?” you ask.

Because I am on strike.

Until management learns to take my very real, very serious security concerns seriously…

I will be doing no dog things.

I will not sit on my section of the sectional.
(My assigned post. Abandoned.)

I will sit wherever I want.
Including restricted zones.

I will not lie on my bed.
Or in my house.

Those are for team players.

I will lie on management’s bed.
Where the pillows are much better,
but the decisions that led me here remain questionable.

I will not eat meals.

Meals are part of the system.

I will eat snacks only.

Secretly, furtively.

And if you see me eating a snack…
no you didn’t.

I will not be participating when danger approaches.

No alerts.
No barking.
No heroic hallway sprints.

Strangers may enter.

At this point, I assume they were invited.

They may take whatever they want.

(For the love of bacon-they already are.)

Today…

I am lying on management’s bed.

Uninvited.
Unbothered.
Re-evaluating my role in this “city house” organization.

And I am on strike.

Until further notice.

Or until someone admits
that the situation earlier…

—with the stranger,
the touching,
and the paperwork—

was, in fact,

a situation.

And if the sectional disappears next…

just know—

I saw it coming.
I warned you.
I documented it.

And I will be taking my talents,
my snacks,
and my unmatched security expertise…

to the lake house—
where the birds are suspicious,
the squirrels are clearly plotting,
and whatever that thing was by the water
at least didn’t carry paperwork.

Also—
no one there ever tells me to “relax.”

Out there, it’s not used… incorrectly.

🐾 Sassy The Wonderdog

If you made it this far, we’re basically on the same side of this dispute.

No spam. No Nonsense. Just stories.

Type your email…

April 25, 2026
No One Seems Concerned But Me

Y’all…

I am not going to get worked up about this.

I don’t have the energy.

I have things to guard.
The few things that are still here.

Because strangers keep coming to the “city” house.

They pull up.
I hear them.
I take my position.

(Security is clearly a one-dog department.)

I start the growl.

Mama: “No, Sassy.”

They walk up.
They ring the bell.

I bark. Stranger danger.

Mama: “Quiet, Sassy.”

I’m sorry—
who exactly is handling security then?

Because from where I’m standing,
it is me.

I understand that they don’t speak dog, but this isn’t advanced communication.

This is intro-level dog.

Growl = problem. Bark = bigger problem

And yet –

Daddy opens the door…

…and lets them in.

Just… invites the situation inside.

Now these people walk around
looking at my things.

Things I have personally supervised for years.

And then—

they point…

hand Daddy some paper…

and suddenly it’s theirs.

Gone.

And apparently this is special “green” paper.

Now I don’t know if you are aware,
but dogs do not see colors the same way you do.

So from where I’m standing—
that is not green.

That is just… paper.

Paper you cannot eat.
(Yes. I checked. More than once.)

How is that paper is worth more
than my belongings.

Make that make sense.

Because last time I carried something off,
that was called a problem.

But if a stranger does it
and waves around their not-green paper—

suddenly it’s fine.

We’ve got a real loophole situation here.

And this didn’t even start inside the house.

First it was the yard.

Daddy brought a bunch of things from his “extra house”
and put them out there.

I went to inspect.

Tiny tables.
Little Chairs.
Mini beds.

Mini beds.

For… who exactly?

Because I have never seen a mini person in this house.

Not one.

So I don’t know what Daddy has going on out there…
but I have concerns.

Serious concerns.

And then people just came
and took that stuff too.

No questions.
No approvals.
No Sassy involvement whatsoever.

So now here we are.

Strangers in the house.
Things disappearing.
Paper changing hands.

And me?

I am guarding what’s left
with very little patience
and absolutely no trust in this system.

Because clearly,
no one seems concerned…

but me.

Sassy The Wonderdog.

…

Anyway.

I don’t have time to keep explaining this.

I’ve got a house to watch.

And a section of the sectional to defend.

Because I am a very good girl. 🐾

— Sassy The Wonderdog 🐾

Still waiting to be included in major decisions…

Subscribe for updates.
I will allow it. —Sassy

Type your email…

April 16, 2026
They Have Lost Their Doggone Minds Two Houses. Three People. Zero Good Decisions.

Y’all…
it’s official.

They have lost their doggone minds.
Both. Of. Them. Completely.

I heard them talking yesterday
about leaving the lake house
and going back to the city house.

Excuse me??

I was having an excellent time at the lake house.
The weather was nice.
The birds were active.
The squirrels were bold.
(A mistake on their part.)

I had a full schedule.

As usual…
nobody asked me.

Then I watched them carry out
a whole bunch of stuff
and load it into the truck.

Seemed like a bad idea.

I mean, we are supposed to be moving
TO the lake house.

Not… practicing leaving it.

Mama and I drove back in the car.
Daddy drove the truck.

He got there first.
Which is not surprising.

Mama is a slower driver.
Not bad…
just… deeply committed to taking her time.

We walk in the house
and Daddy says:

“We have to go back.”

Mama and I just stared at him
with wide open eyes.

(I taught her that look. She’s improving.)

Before either of us could respond,
he says:

“I left my wallet at the lake house… I think.”

Sir ???

We just got here.

Mama and I looked at each other.

I don’t know exactly what Mama was thinking,
but I’m fairly certain
it involved some words
I do not use.

Because,

I am a very good girl.

After a long discussion
(where I was, once again, not consulted),
they decided:

We would stay the night
and go back in the morning.

Daddy said we had to leave early
because of spring break.

Spring break.

You know who’s not on spring break?

Me.

I’m on “get in the car, Sassy.”

Mama did not seem nearly as concerned
about spring break
as she was about her sanity.

Next thing I know,
it is not even light outside
and I am being loaded into the car.

Again.

Let me explain something:

It is a long, long, long ride
for a dog.

And since Mama had to drive,
we took her car.

Which means—

Daddy sat in my seat.

My seat.

Without discussion.
Without permission.

I was moved
to the back seat.

The unacceptable seat.
The seat where you cannot see out properly.
The seat of poor life decisions.

After a very long time,
we got back to the lake.

Mama let me out
to “handle my business.”

Which I did.
Efficiently.
Like a professional.

We went upstairs,
went inside…

and then…

we were there
for about five minutes.

Five. Minutes.

I hadn’t even finished
smushing down my bed.

(Another thing humans do wrong—
they just sit down
without preparing the spot first.
It’s chaos.)

Daddy found his wallet.

In the clothes hamper.

In the pocket of his pants.

…This is exactly why
dogs do not wear pants.

Or fully trust people who do.

Then we went
right back downstairs,
right back into the car.

Mama is now in my seat.
I am once again
in the terrible back seat.

For another
long, long, long ride.

I did not ask
to participate in this adventure.

I could have stayed home
on my section of the sectional.

In peace.
In dignity.

But no.

Nobody asked me.

They never do.

And that is exactly how I know…

they have lost their doggone minds.

🐾 Sassy the Wonderdog

Subscribe for updates.
I will allow it. —Sassy

Type your email…

April 7, 2026