Third Act With Pattie

Category: 🚣 Lake Life

Living full time at the lake — kayaking, watching the water, dealing with geese, and enjoying the quiet moments.

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

August 25, 2026
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

June 24, 2026
My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

I call myself a quilter.

In the interest of full disclosure…
I haven’t touched my sewing machine in at least ten months.

And considering the fact that I own enough fabric to insulate a small village…
that feels a little ridiculous.

First it was cancer,
then it was recovery,
then it was the Great Retirement Delusion.

The phase where we allegedly “slowed down,” despite the fact that I now spend half my life trying to remember where I put things I packed myself.

We have moved so many 27-gallon bins full of sewing room stuff that if they were filled with water,

I’d have a hot tub.

But I don’t.

I have fabric and notions and tools and machines and enough sewing-room chaos

that if I did have a hot tub,

I’d probably be too exhausted to climb into it.

And even though I’m currently buried alive under “moving a sewing room,”

something unexpected has happened.

Every time I open another bin,

I stumble into an old idea,

an old project,

or a version of myself who used to make things just because she wanted to.

Tiny scraps from a shooting star quilt I made during the phase where I believed sewing together 1.5 x 2-inch pieces would somehow make me a “real quilter” instead of just giving me neck pain and eye strain.

A ruler I’ve used so much the numbers are wearing off,

which feels judgmental at this point.

Half a bundle of fat quarters that instantly brings back a last-minute Christmas table runner…

and a weekend where I stayed up until 2 a.m.,

insisting I was “almost done”

like a woman with absolutely no prior experience being me.

A box full of blocks for a quilt I adored while cutting…

and completely hated by block five of assembly.

And somewhere between hauling bins, untangling extension cords, and wondering why all seventeen pairs of my fabric scissors disappear simultaneously like they’re part of an organized crime ring…

my brain skipped right past “you should really get organized” and went straight to:

What can I make now?

Not what should I donate.
Not what should I finish.
Not what responsible adults would do in this situation.

What can I make now!

And then it hit me…

my sewing room wasn’t just fabric storage

it was where my creativity had quietly been waiting for me.

Honestly, I didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling until it came back.

Not the pressure to make something impressive.
Not the giant complicated projects that require seventeen fabrics and a level of math I refuse to acknowledge publicly.

Just the spark.

That little twitch in your brain that looks at fabric and immediately starts making terribly wonderful decisions.

The sudden belief that this might be the project where I lose myself in the creating for a while… and somehow find pieces of myself again in the process.

And after ten months of surviving, recovering, relocating, downsizing, upsizing, and wandering around looking for things I packed myself…

that tiny creative spark feels a lot less like “coming home” and a lot more like trouble.

The good kind.

The kind that ends with fabric all over the table, thread stuck to your shirt, twenty-seven browser tabs open for “inspiration,” and a completely irrational conviction that your entire happiness depends on finding one more shade of teal.

And honestly?
I think I’m finally ready for that again.

So come sit by me.

We’ll dig through fabric, make wildly questionable project decisions, and lie to ourselves about only starting one new quilt.

Some traditions are worth preserving.

– Pattie

June 1, 2026
Lake Music

Rain

tap tap tapping

on the metal roof

Wind whipping

through the trees

Water rushing

everywhere

The lake makes its own music

May 7, 2026
I Owe That Stick an Apology

A few days ago, I told you all about the snake…
OK – the stick.

Apparently that was just the rehearsal.

So yes. It was not a snake.
I overreacted.
I do that sometimes.

But never—never—in my wildest, most dramatic, slightly exaggerated imagination
did I expect to be corrected that quickly.

Today, hubby and I had just made it back to the lake after a highly glamorous “load random stuff into the truck at the city house” excursion.

We pull in.
Park the truck.
I hop out to throw away our mobile lunch trash like the productive, responsible adult I occasionally pretend to be.

I round the corner to the back of the house…

…and there it is.

Coiled.
Right by the garbage can.
Just sitting there… waiting… for me.

A snake.
A real snake.
A big, fat, long, brown snake.

And I did what any calm, measured, rational woman would do.

I froze completely…
and screamed at the exact same time:

SNAKE! SNAKE! SNAKE!

Hubby?
Near the truck. No response.

Middle S’kiddle and friend?
On the deck. No response.

Neighbors?
On their porch. Watching the lake. Living their best lives.
Also no response.

Excuse me.

Still frozen in place—because apparently my body chose statue mode over survival mode—
I tried again, hissing out:

S—N—A—K—E!

Nothing.
Not a twitch.
Not a “what’s wrong?”
Not even a courtesy head turn.

At this point, it became painfully clear…

I was now the woman who cried wolf.
Except the wolf was now very clearly a REAL SNAKE.
And I had no credibility left.

So I yelled again, something along the lines of:

“Everybody in this cove can hear me screaming SNAKE and y’all are just going to ignore me?!”

Which felt fair.
And accurate.
And possibly a little loud.

Eventually, hubby wandered over—casually—like I had called him to admire a sunset.

Middle S’kiddle came closer too.

And when I said, with urgency and dignity,
“It’s a SNAKE,”

they both did that little backward step.

Oh NOW we’re listening.

Good.

Now that I had their attention I explained- very clearly— that this was not a stick situation.

This was a real, actual, confirmed snake,
and it had slithered itself right behind the Herbie-Kerbie on wheels… like it lived there.

Still… skepticism.

Because apparently once you misidentify a stick one time, your word is forever suspect.

So now their doing a full investigation.
Everyone has to come see it with their own eyes.
Like a jury viewing evidence.

Meanwhile, I have not moved.
Not an inch.
Still yelling some version of “snake” on a loop.

And then…

Hubby sees it.

Pauses.

And says the words that restored my dignity:

“Yeah… that is a snake.”

WELL.
I’LL.
BE.

From there, hubby did what all good hubbies do.

He handled the situation.

Efficiently.
Heroically.
Without me having to participate in any way whatsoever.

Which is exactly how I like my wildlife encounters resolved.

So yes.

I confused a stick for a snake.

And then I spotted an actual snake…

and was ignored by everyone within shouting distance.

I would like the record to reflect:

I was right the second time.

Which is the one that mattered.

Pull up a chair… just not near the trash can.

-Pattie

Type your email…

May 6, 2026