Canine Conspiracy

My dogs are in cahoots–and not just with each other–no, sir–they’re in league with the weather, gravity, and some ancient, cosmic trickster spirit that gets its kicks watching me try to maintain my rural dignity.

We live in the scratchy outskirts of Reno/Sparks, where the wind comes free with every sunrise and leaves with most of your lawn furniture. Last night’s storm was a classic—trees bending like ol’ men in a pew, fence boards clapping together like gossiping church ladies, and a trash can lid that made it halfway to Elko before dawn.

So there I was this morning, doing what any decent man does after a gale–trying to make it look like nothing happened. I was out back gathering broken branches–some big enough to call “kindling,” others small enough to stick in a scarecrow’s mouth. The sun was poking through the clouds, casting a golden light on the sagebrush and leftover chaos, and I was knee-deep in pine needles, bird complaints, and misplaced ambition.

And there, stretched out on the patio like sunbathing aristocrats, were my two dogs. They weren’t helping, of course. They were watching like judges in a reality show for the recently henpecked.

I swear, they were whispering to each other, muzzles pressed close.

“Look at him,” Buddy probably said. “Out there flailing around like he knows what he’s doing. You think the female human told him to do this?”

And Honey, with her tail doing that soft little tick-tick-tick, nodded solemnly like, Oh yes, this is the human version of chewing a squeaky toy.

They were grinning too, eyes half-closed, like old gamblers who know how the hand will play out.

I don’t believe in omens, but I do believe in timing. It’s why I should’ve known something was up when I took one step backward and felt that unmistakable squelch under my heel. Warm. Fresh. Direct hit.

And before I could even mutter a decent curse, both dogs sprang to life like shot-out jackrabbits. Bolted inside the house and turned to face me through the sliding glass door, their tails wagging in sync like a couple of furry metronomes. Honey whined like a high note in a gospel song, and Buddy did that bouncy shuffle dogs do when they’re either excited or feeling smug.

They were mocking me. I know it. If dogs could talk, they wouldn’t use words. They’d use moments like this.

I’ve learned not to hold grudges, not against dogs, anyway. They’ve seen me in all my unfiltered glory—dropping barbecue tongs into the coals, trimming the wrong side of the hedge, wearing socks with my sandals “just this once.”

They don’t judge. They giggle with their tails.

And maybe that’s the point. You can plan all you want, rake your branches into tidy little piles, and pretend you control your morning. But sometimes, life hands you a windstorm, a fresh pile of mischief, and a couple of companions who know exactly where to leave it.

The trick, I think, is learning to laugh with them–once you’ve cleaned your boot off, of course.