“Well, if it isn’t Captain Cheerful,” I call, hands on my hips, just as I trip over two dogs chasing each other in a blur of fur and paws. I stumble forward, flailing my arms like a windmill on espresso, and manage to catch myself on a garden gnome with a suspiciously judgmental expression. I straighten up quickly, cheeks flaming, and pretend that definitely didn’t just happen. “Graceful as always,” I mutter under my breath, brushing off my knees and trying to salvage an ounce of dignity.
Ashe raises an eyebrow just as I start to wobble again—two terriers whiz past, knocking into my legs. I lurch forward, flailing, and he instinctively reaches out a hand to steady me. It landsbriefly on my elbow before I catch my balance, muttering, “Oh for fluff’s sake,” under my breath. He blinks, probably unsure whether I’m injured or just dramatic.
“It’s Lieutenant,” he says like it’s the most obvious correction in the world, “and are you okay? Have you been drinking?”
I can only nod right now because I’m afraid I’ll trip again.
Ashe looks around, “This is quite a dog party. It looks like it’s Coachella.”
“It’s a curated experience,” I say sweetly, smoothing down my sundress even though it’s already half soaked with sweat and clinging in all the wrong places. I toss my curls over one shoulder and give him a too bright smile. “Would you prefer a sad puddle and a muddy tennis ball? Because I could totally set that up.”
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with the long-suffering weariness of a man who’s lost every argument to his dog this week. “Smokey wouldn’t stop whining by the door,” he mutters, eyes narrowing at his furry sidekick, who is now doing literal circles around Ashe like he’s dancing. “I think he’s in love. And frankly, I’m too tired to fight him on it.”
“Aren’t we all,” I mutter, eyes trailingafter Peaches as she barrels towards Smokey like she’s about to propose, complete with a dramatic tail wag that could rival a rom-com finale. She’s bounding across the lawn with such single-minded determination that if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s planning their wedding for next week—guest list, cake, and matching collars already in the works.
Smokey and Peaches collide in a joyous tangle of wagging tails, flailing paws, and enthusiastic snout kisses, spinning in circles like they’re reenacting a reunion scene from a canine soap opera. Peaches lets out a delighted bark, hopping on her hind legs as if she’s performing for an audience. Smokey leans into her affection with the stoic endurance of a dog who knows resistance is futile. Ashe winces, scrubbing a hand down his face.
“They’re like magnets,” I say. “Messy, adorable magnets.”
He looks around like he’s still trying to calculate how many ways this could end in disaster. “So… what’s on the agenda?”
“Well, there’s a biscuit relay, a costume parade, a paw-painting booth—which, fair warning, is just chaos with non-toxic paint—and a nap station for the introverts and emotionally overwhelmed Labradoodles.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m dead serious,” I say, handing him a schedule printed on rainbow cardstock. “All events are optional but highly encouraged. Except the sprinkler dash. That one’s mandatory.”
He squints at me. “You made that up just now, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, flashing him a grin and lifting my brows with mock innocence, “only because I saw you coming and needed a really good excuse to watch you get soaked.” I trail my eyes down his shirt, deliberately slow, letting the silence last just long enough to make him shift his weight. “You’ll wear sprinkler well, Lieutenant.”
The party continues in a blur of barking, laughter, and one deeply chaotic round of musical sit. Smokey wins, of course—gracefully sliding into position with military precision. Peaches is the first one out, distracted by a rogue butterfly and an unclaimed treat near the lemonade cooler. When Ashe picks up the squeaky toy trophy, he doesn’t just look proud—he looks like he’s just been knighted in the court of backyard dog games. There’s a smugness that settles over him, subtle, but unmistakable, curling the edge of his mouth and twitching one brow like even his face is having a victory lap.
Then it happens.
Peaches, in all her exuberant glory, barrels toward the treat table like she just caught a whiff of something delicious—her tongue lolling, eyes wild with anticipation. Her paws pound the ground with all the subtlety of a toddler on a sugar high. Someone’s kid yells, “She’s gonna crash!” right as she leaps through a cluster of balloons.
And oh, she does crash… hard.
With one elegant leap, Peaches takes out the table leg like it insulted her mother and then refused to compliment her new haircut. Treats explode into the air like confetti. Pupcakes somersault through space in majestic arcs of banana-frosted doom. The decorative vase does a dramatic roll across the grass, landing upright like it meant to be part of the show. A horrified gasp echoes from the treat table vicinity, followed by a delighted squeal from someone who must think the pupcake explosion is part of the entertainment. Chaos doesn’t just erupt—it cartwheels into pandemonium.
And in the middle of the madness, just as the last pupcake hits the grass, someone yells “Incoming!”, a tiny pug in a rainbow tutu makes a break for it—zooming between a pair of startled golden retrievers and launching itself over a toppled garden gnome, itschubby legs churning at top speed, tutu bouncing with every bound, a blur of rainbow fluff and pure rebellion.
“Fifi!” Janine-from-three-doors-down screams, clutching her sunhat like she’s witnessing a royal scandal.
The pug darts under a lawn chair and into the sprinkler zone, a blur of fluff and determination. The sprinkler kicks on with a hiss, shooting an arc of water into the air just as a group of guests—Mrs. Honeywell, Janine-from-three-doors-down, and the teenager with the basset hound—let out startled squeals and scatter in all directions like pastel-colored bowling pins. Someone shrieks, “Not the hair!” while another yells “Save the pupcakes!” Lawn chairs tip, hats go flying, and at least one sandal is lost to the grass forever. The pug, undeterred, charges through the chaos like it’s leading a rebellion, tutu bouncing triumphantly with every bound.
Without thinking, I sprint after her, the hem of my sundress flapping wildly and my flip-flops slapping against the grass like overexcited applause. Peaches, naturally, thinks this is the best game ever invented and joins the stampede, barking encouragement like the world’s most chaotic cheerleader. Theother dogs fall in line behind us—every tail wagging, every tongue lolling—as if someone yelled “Free bacon!” and we’re all suddenly Olympic-level sprinters. What started as a retrieval mission has now become a full-blown canine conga line, weaving through streamers, sprinkler spray, and shrieking humans with the precision of a dog-powered tornado.
The grass is slick, my shoes are impractical, and within seconds, I’m slipping through the sprinkler spray like a contestant in a very weird reality show. Fifi zigs. I zag. I’m soaked. I’m laughing. I’m yelling apologies and commands like, “You are a menace in sequins, Fifi!”
Behind me, I hear more barking… and Ashe cursing.
He’s running after me now, long legs closing the gap fast. Smokey follows, focused like a search-and-rescue professional, while Peaches is just thrilled to be part of the action.
Fifi skids to a stop near the hydrangeas, tongue out, tail wagging. I lunge—arms outstretched, dress plastered to my legs, heart pounding—and miss by a mile. She jukes left just as I dive right, and I end up grasping at empty air. Just as I start to groan in frustration, Ashe swoops in from the side, catchingFifi mid-bound with one arm like he’s done this a hundred times before. She lets out a surprised bark, her tutu puffing up dramatically like she’s a Boadway star caught in a wind machine. Ashe straightens up, pug tucked under one arm, expression unreadable but eyes flickering with the tiniest bit of amusement as if this whole circus might’ve cracked through his stoic armor—just a little.
Fifi, tutu puffed out and glistening in the sprinkler mist, beams at the crowd like she’s just won Best in Show and knows it. She strikes a pose on Ashe’s forearm, tongue out, ears perked, soaking in the applause as though she orchestrated the entire thing herself.
