Paws, Pixels & Coffee: Tails from the Gazebo
I woke this morning wedged like a human sandwich between two hot, furry dogs. Freya sprawled on her back, paws pointed skyward like she was auditioning for “belly rub of the year,” while Odin had himself tucked into the tightest ball imaginable, practically glued to my side.
It felt less like cuddling and more like a canine compression chamber—suffocating and claustrophobic in equal measure. I wiggled and peeled myself out of the bed as quickly as my achey bones would allow, limbs protesting every movement. One glance in the mirror confirmed the truth: today called for a long, warm shower and an extra-strong cup of brew before I could resemble a functioning human.
I knew I should be productive today, but the universe had other plans. I woke congested, sore throat, body dragging like a rusted anchor—and to top it off, my Canadian friend (the sneaky saint that he is) conned me into trying a new game by sending me the base game outright. One quick peek at the store and, naturally, I bought all the DLCs. Because self-control? Never heard of her. Spoiled? Yes.
Honestly, I wanted to veg out in my recliner and play video games all day, but part of me kept whispering, “you should at least try to do something.” So, I compromised. I shuffled into the shower and sat regally on my throne chair, inhaling steam like some kind of congested queen. By the time I wrestled the tangles out of my rat’s nest hair and brewed my first cup of coffee, I accepted the truth: today’s achievements would only be measured by what could be accomplished without leaving my recliner.
I ticked off the essentials: feed the dogs—check. Dog bathroom break—check. Walk the dogs—sort of… if circling the trailer counts, then yes, check. Then it was back into my PJs (okay fine, my purple-and-white old-lady moomoo that went on the second I stepped out of the shower). Second cup of life in hand, I messaged my Canadian conspirator. It was game time.
Half an hour in, my body reminded me that allergies (or maybe a cold) were plotting against me. I went on the hunt for medicine and—jackpot—spotted a glorious bottle of Zyrtec. Triumph! Until I opened it. Empty. Completely empty. Apparently, I’d been carrying that smug, hollow little bottle through multiple moves just so it could laugh in my face today. Why am I like this? With a dramatic sigh, I tossed it in the trash.
Then I did what any reasonable adult would do in such dire circumstances: made another cup of coffee and went back to the game. Because some days, survival itself is the only quest worth completing.
Then I did what any reasonable adult would do in such dire circumstances: brewed another cup of coffee and dove straight back into the game. Because honestly, some days survival itself is the only quest worth completing.
The dogs, however, weren’t buying it. Being the needy little drama queens they are, they rotated between plopping their heads on my arm (with the world’s saddest eyes) to pacing back and forth like tiny furry drill sergeants. I knew I was being a “bad Mommy” and needed to do better, but in that moment my energy level was firmly set to nope.
Over the next hour, the guilt grew right along with their stares—long, soulful, impatient stares that could pierce steel. Finally, I caved. The rain had cooled the air, and for once stepping outside didn’t feel like walking into a furnace. So I shuffled them out to the gazebo. We lasted about an hour before the heat came back swinging, but by then they were satisfied enough to head inside.
As a peace offering, I handed over their enrichment toys, and blissful self-entertainment commenced—two happy dogs occupied, one tired human free to slip back into her pixelated adventures.
We decided to multitask—watch The Hunger Games while gaming (two of my favorite pastimes combined). Two movies in and the Canadian old man was ready for a nap. Honestly, so was I. I tinkered on the computer a bit my brain still running riot, making cartoon versions of Odin and Freya, which turned out adorable. Naturally, I tried one of myself too. Did it look anything like me? Not even close. Was it still cute? Absolutely. Will I use it? Probably not.
Eventually, I surrendered to the nap. Sleep, however, is never simple when you live with two furry companions who have no concept of personal space. I tossed and turned under a pile of paws and fur, suffocated by “love.”
And of course, the second I finally drifted off, Freya woke me with her relentless nudging. Surely, I thought, this must be urgent—she never pesters like that unless it’s bathroom time. Half-asleep, I dragged myself up, collared them both, and shuffled outside.
Spoiler alert: she didn’t need to go potty. No, my dramatic girl just wanted to sit in the gazebo, soaking up the night air like it was a five-star experience. At first, I wasn’t impressed… until I saw the look on their faces. Pure joy. Both of them sat in regal stillness, eyes locked on the darkness, ears pricked to catch every sound, scanning the world like seasoned sentries.
So I leaned back in my zero-gravity chair, gazing up at the stars through the mesh while Odin and Freya perched on their own chairs in “place,” watching the night unfold. After an hour, I finally released them, and off they went—sniffing and exploring like professional adventurers on a midnight quest.
The neighbors next door were having a party, their three dogs running off-leash. They invited me over—kindly even saying to bring my dogs. But three strange dogs, alcohol, and my not-quite-ready-for-chaos pups? That sounded like a recipe for disaster. I politely declined and retreated to my safe little gazebo bubble. If I’m honest, even without the dogs, I probably wouldn’t have gone. Group settings with strangers? Hard pass. Awkward and uncomfortable is my middle name.
And while tucked safely in my gazebo away from people and conversation, I found myself wondering why I’m like that now. When I was younger, I was a social butterfly—at every party, everyone’s friend, always laughing and living in the center of it all. Now, I’m a hermit. Nervous, anxious, more at ease with my dogs and my recliner than with strangers. I guess life just… happens. Little by little, through experiences and disappointments, you back into a shell of protection—not quite trusting the world the way you once did.
Being social is almost like an art you have to practice and perfect, like dancing. The sway in and out of conversation as it weaves from one topic to another, the body language and eye contact. If you stop participating, you become out of practice—stepping on feet, slightly off beat. I’m sure, like dancing, with enough practice you can find the right rhythm again. But honestly? Who has the energy for that anymore.
And so the day ended: part canine chaos, part digital questing, part quiet reflection. Not productive in the traditional sense, but survival, small joys, and a third cup of coffee count as wins in my book. I climbed back into my recliner, with a freshly washed lavender fluffy blanket and called it a night.
Lessons of the Day
Dogs don’t understand “personal space,” only “all the space.”
Empty Zyrtec bottles are traitors that lie in wait until the worst possible moment.
Coffee is less a beverage and more a legally acceptable life support system.
Video games and movies together are basically a spa day for introverts.
Purple-and-white moomoo’s = survival gear for the chronically tired.
Gazebo time with dogs beats any awkward party invite—every time.
Social skills really are like dancing… and I’m currently off beat with two left feet.
Rest days are still progress—just measured in coffee cups, not checkmarks.
Resistance is futile when you live with professional guilt-trippers that give you puppy dog eyes.
Sometimes the best wins in a day are small: a blanket, a recliner, and just enough peace to call it good.
