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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 🐾

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Off the record…