After work tonight, I decided to do something brave.
No, I didn’t tackle my inbox or fold that laundry that’s been silently judging me for the last two days. I stepped outside with all three dogs for their nightly zoomies.
This sounds relaxing, right? Like something from a Hallmark movie where the golden hour light glows just right, the dogs frolic peacefully, and someone hands me a cup of herbal tea.
Yeah, no. That is not what happened.
It started off promising. The sky was that perfect cotton candy blend of pink and orange. Crickets were chirping, frogs were croaking like a choir of very passionate backup singers, and for a moment, I thought: “Wow. This is kind of magical.”
Then Cheyenne spotted the pond.
Now, Cheyenne is a good dog. Sweet. Loyal. Smart. But when it comes to water, she has exactly zero self-control. She is a lab, which means ponds are not optional—they’re destiny.
So off she went. Galloping full speed, ears flapping, tongue lolling, like a fur-covered torpedo of joy. She hit the edge of the pond and didn’t even slow down—just launched herself in with a splash so loud I’m pretty sure the frogs filed a noise complaint.
And then came Suki.
Suki is… tiny. Four pounds of pure fluff, attitude, and unearned confidence. She is also, I swear to you, part flying squirrel. She doesn’t run like a normal dog. She levitates. She hops through the air like a bunny who drank a Red Bull, bouncing along in wild zigzags, chasing after Cheyenne with all the enthusiasm of someone who thinks she, too, might be a lab. (Spoiler: she is not.)
She’s also waterproof in theory only.
I have no idea how she kept up. One moment she was in the grass, the next she was mid-air like a popcorn kernel popping in slow motion. I half-expected her to break the sound barrier.
And finally… there was Angel.
Sweet, old-soul Angel. She looked at Cheyenne, then at Suki, then at me—and promptly decided she’d stay by my side, thank you very much. She wandered gently in the grass, sniffed a few flowers, and occasionally gave me a look that said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with them, but I’m clearly the favorite.”
She was not wrong.
So there I stood: watching a lab doing cannonballs, a four-pound cloud of fur defying gravity, and my personal emotional support dog gently grazing like a miniature cow.
The crickets chirped louder. The frogs went into a full concert. Cheyenne splashed out of the water and immediately rolled in dirt for that deluxe “swamp and soil” scent. Suki kept bouncing around like a popcorn ball with zoomies. Angel sat politely by my feet like a lady.
And me?
I laughed. The kind of laugh that sneaks up on you after a long day. The kind that bubbles out when things are wild and messy and nothing like your Pinterest board—but so much better.
Because here’s the truth:
Sometimes joy looks like a quiet sunset.
And sometimes it looks like muddy paw prints, airborne fluff balls, and one soaking wet dog who refuses to towel off.
Either way—joy is there.
And tonight, it came in the form of chaos, crickets, and canine comedy.
I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
(Except maybe a dry floor.)
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