Third Act With Pattie

Category: Wandering Thoughts

  • 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.

  • My Lake Girl Era is Off to a Rough Start

    My Lake Girl Era is Off to a Rough Start

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  • It Was Never Just a Room

    It Was Never Just a Room

    I came home from the lake yesterday to do the thing I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

    Pack the quilting room.

    Although calling it a room has always been a bit generous.

    This was never just a room.
    It was where things were made and where thoughts made sense.

    It was a fully operational textile ecosystem.

    Two sewing machines.
    One coverstitch machine (because at some point I believed I hem things).
    A Moxie quilting machine on an eight-foot frame that requires its own zip code.

    Two tables.
    Four bookcases.
    Fabric. Notions. Needles. Pins. Books.

    And supplies.

    So many supplies.

    Not everything you could possibly need—
    because if it were everything, I would have had to stop buying things.
    And we all know that was never part of the plan.

    There are shelves of doohickeys.
    Tools I bought for one very specific purpose and then never saw again.
    Pegboards.
    Lights.
    More lights.

    A nightstand.
    (No idea.)

    One very comfortable chair that has supported both creativity and avoidance in equal measure.

    Also where I sat long enough for things to settle.

    Containers of fabric.
    Wall hangings.
    Half-finished projects that were absolutely going to change my life.

    Plants.
    Because nothing says “sharp rotary cutter” like watering schedules.

    And—

    a gun safe.

    Yes.
    A gun safe.

    Because apparently when you negotiate for an entire room of your own,
    there may be terms and conditions.

    Also… it’s the only place it fits.

    So there it sits.
    Right in the middle of all of it.

    Which really just proves the point—

    it was never just a room.

    So here I am…

    trying to pack.

    And every single thing I touch
    has something to say about it.

    This room always did that.
    It held onto things for me.

    There’s a vase filled with old thread—
    the kind you don’t use anymore
    but you also don’t throw away.

    Thread from my mother.

    Too old to trust.
    Too hers to toss.

    Only one still has a price on it.

    Fifteen cents.

    I don’t know what that equals today,
    but I know it equals
    put that back down.

    Then there’s the Shoney’s Big Boy doll—
    grinning like he remembers things I don’t.

    My Daddy worked at Shoney’s when I was little.
    Wore that same haircut.

    I can’t look at that ridiculous plastic head
    without seeing my Daddy.

    My mother’s cross-stitch hangs on the wall:

    “Not tonight dear… I’m stitching.”

    Which explains a lot.

    Next to it—

    “Girls just wanna have FUN-damental human rights.”

    And a crocheted Ruth Bader Ginsburg doll
    who looks like she’s about to file a dissenting opinion
    on how long this packing is taking.

    This room—

    was never just fabric and machines.

    It was time.
    It was people.
    It was where I came when I needed quiet… or wasn’t ready to answer questions.

    It was versions of me
    who thought I’d make clothes,
    be more organized,
    and finish what I started.

    (It’s also proof I have never met a piece of fabric I didn’t believe had potential.)

    And now I’m supposed to put it all in boxes.

    Like it’s just a room.

    But it isn’t.

    It never was.

    I think I knew that all along.

    Some things get packed. Some things come with me.

    And now…

    it’s packed. Stacked. Labeled.

    Ready to go to the lake.

    And I think –

    so am I.

    -Pattie

    If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

  • 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…

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    I will allow it. —Sassy

  • They Might Already Be Walking As Fast As They Can

    They Might Already Be Walking As Fast As They Can

    Notes from Life After the Bell

    I cannot count how many times I’ve been annoyed walking behind someone slow.

    You know the feeling—
    that boiling irritation when someone is in your way,
    moving at half your speed,
    and you’ve got somewhere to be.

    Today, my husband and I were in a store.
    (Perks of the Third Act—we can do that on a weekday now.)

    He picked up a heavy box.
    The kind that immediately says “we should have gotten a buggy.”

    But instead of putting it back down like a sensible person,
    he just… held it and looked at me.

    I did not ask questions.

    I went to get a buggy
    (which, if you’re not from the South, is a shopping cart).

    And I moved fast.
    Really fast.

    Faster than I’ve moved in months.

    And that’s when it hit me—

    I could breathe.
    I wasn’t unsteady.
    I wasn’t dizzy.

    I was just… walking.
    Like a normal person in a store, not someone wondering if the next step might take me down.

    And I was so grateful I could have cried.
    (I didn’t. Because… public.)

    The poisoning is leaving my body.
    I am clearly getting better.

    And then—because my brain likes to keep things interesting—
    another thought showed up.

    We have no idea why someone is moving slow.

    We don’t know if they are walking as fast as they possibly can.
    We don’t know what their body is dealing with –
    Or what it costs them just to be upright in that moment.

    But we get annoyed anyway.

    We assume they’re in the way.
    We assume they’re not paying attention.
    We assume we’re more important than whatever is slowing them down. And we all know how well assuming usually works out.

    I remember what it felt like
    to want to move faster
    and not be able to.

    To feel unsteady.
    To feel unsure.
    To feel like I was holding people up.

    It’s humbling.

    And… damn inconvenient, if I’m being honest.

    I hope I never forget it.

    Because the next time I’m stuck behind someone moving slow,
    I want to remember— they might already be walking as fast as they can.

    I remember what that feels like.

    And I don’t ever want to forget.

    —Pattie, moving a little slower (on purpose this time)

    If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.