The Stick of Destiny

Saturday began with the noble intention of a calm, ordinary dog walk. Andy had even promised himself he would keep his muddy boots under control. I believed it for approximately 17.3 seconds.

The cast assembled:

• Alice, who clearly thought every walk is a competitive sport.

• Nicolas, whose tail alone could generate enough energy to power a small kettle.

• Shiva, wise, calm, and only occasionally tempted by minor chaos.

The plan: a gentle stroll to the bottom field, look for the puppy, a bit of running around, a sniff here and there, then back home. Relaxing. Normal. Safe.

The reality: something out of a low-budget action-comedy.

It started innocently. Alice spotted a stick. Not just any stick. A stick of destiny. She grabbed it like she had invented sticks, and immediately Nicolas decided it was his personal mission to retrieve it. A tug-of-war ensued. Shiva, sensing the escalating drama, ran circles around them like a furry referee.

Then came the puddle. Not a small puddle. A huge, suspiciously deep puddle. Nicolas, in his infinite wisdom, decided the puddle was hostile. Alice, still clinging to the stick, decided puddles are meant to be conquered. Shiva, forever the adult, attempted to steer them both away from total disaster.

But disaster had already RSVP’d.

Alice launched herself into the puddle at the same time Nicolas lunged for the stick. They collided mid-splash. Water, mud, and leaves flew in all directions. Shiva barked, which in German Shepherd fun police terms is a precise combination of “Stop this nonsense immediately” and “I am judging all of you.”

Andy, who was walking a little behind us and quietly thinking he was safe from chaos, suddenly found himself smacked in the shin by a very wet, very determined Alice. He stumbled into the puddle as well, flailing like a human prop in a slapstick film.

At this point, Nicolas had invented a new move called The Human Drag, which involves wrapping himself around your leg while barking dramatically. Shiva, deciding she had done her duty, sat down and stared at us with a calmness so intense it felt like passive-aggressive judgement.

And of course, at the absolute height of chaos, a large stick—possibly the same one Alice had claimed as her own—flew directly into my shoulder like it had been fired from a catapult. Somehow, I ended up tangled in a muddy, barking, spinning spectacle that looked suspiciously like the cover of a very wrong children’s book called “How Not to Walk Your Dogs.”

Eventually, with considerable effort, bribes, and a heroic bit of coaxing involving biscuits, I managed to extract all three dogs from puddle, mud, and each other. Andy stood dripping, blinking, and muttering something about changing careers.

We returned home like survivors of a minor natural disaster. The cats, who had wisely stayed inside, did a slow, measured inspection of the scene. Blossom blinked. Mortimer wandered around the periphery. Ursie sat on the stairs like a small furry general, clearly plotting how she would maintain order if she were in charge.

Lunch consisted of coffee and damp toast. Everyone was wet, muddy, slightly traumatised, but strangely proud.

Memo to self: on Saturday walks, the laws of physics and canine chaos do not apply.