Slobber & Sleep Sabotage: A Day in RV Dog Mom Life

This morning started at 4 a.m. thanks to the insistent wet nudge of Odin’s nose on my face. Not satisfied with just poking me awake, he decided to body slam the bell, filling the RV with its obnoxious ring ring ring. When I still clung desperately to the last scraps of sleep, he leapt onto my chest, planted himself like a furry overlord, and licked my face until I was thoroughly slimed.

I woke up furious—smashed under his weight, marinated in slobber, and choking on his Bad Dog Breath. Still, believing in positive intent, I dragged myself up and brought him outside to potty.

Except… he didn’t need to potty. Nope. The truth hit fast and hard: this was all a ploy to get me into his new obsession, the gazebo. Ever since the temperature dropped yesterday, it’s been his personal kingdom. Cabin fever had clearly fried his brain after four and a half days of rain and me being chained to work. I don’t blame him, but at that moment, I wanted to trade him in for a cat.

I collapsed into the zero-gravity chair, leaned back, and closed my eyes. We stayed like that for hours. I chatted half-awake with my Canadian and Oklahoma friends who were already up, but honestly, this was a morning even coffee couldn’t cure. I was mad, annoyed, tired, and deeply grouchy.

The dogs decided they needed to be heard and went full bark-mode at a neighbor who was just pitter-pattering around minding their own business. A couple of zap-zaps later, my dogs were still auditioning for the role of “Neighborhood Menace,” while my neighbor side-eyed us like, “Wow, she really doesn’t have this whole dog mom thing under control, does she?”

That was our cue to retreat in shame back inside. I collapsed into my recliner and passed out, blissfully unconscious for two whole hours—until round two. This time, it was a full-blown ambush: two dogs, one mom, zero mercy. I love them, I really do. But in that moment? I was ready to plop them on a street corner with little cardboard signs that read: “I’m a bad dog. My mommy will pay YOU to take me.” Thinking maybe they finally wanted a walk, I leashed them up. Wrong again. A half-hearted stroll later, their true goal emerged: back to the gazebo. Watching the world go by is apparently much more entertaining than peeing or exercising. So, back they went, clipped to their leads. Back I went, into my zero-gravity chair, muttering, “It’s gonna be a long day.”

And honestly, it’s moments like these that I really miss having a backyard—being able to put them outside without worrying they’ll bark at every leaf, squirrel, or human that dares to exist within a mile radius.

We sat outside for a few hours until one of our neighbor’s dogs came over to say hello. Off-leash and totally confident, he padded right up to the dog pen like he owned the place. My not-so-friendly duo completely lost their minds—barking, growling, snarling like possessed creatures. I zap-zapped their collars, but it was useless; they didn’t care. I ended up reeling them in on their leads and physically forcing them into a “place” position. Meanwhile, the neighbor’s dog just stood there calm, unimpressed, and probably rolling his eyes at my dramatic little monsters before strolling back to his parents.

My dogs froze in their “place,” guilt written all over their furry faces. Money well spent on doggy prison, I muttered, irritated. And of course, I could feel all my neighbors’ eyes—judging me and my dogs, or maybe that was just my own guilty conscience eating at me. Either way, I was done. Damn dogs, I thought, hauling them back inside. Their outdoor freedom was officially revoked.

I knew I should clean. I knew it wouldn’t take long. But after the night before’s circus of dog shenanigans—and their oh-so-lovely 4 a.m. wake-up call—my energy reserves were at negative infinity. No part of me wanted to move, let alone clean. So, I did the only reasonable thing a sane, responsible adult would do: I collapsed into my trusty recliner (aka my royal throne) and surrendered to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

No dreams, no background noise, not even the faintest whiff of dog breath crept in—just pure blackout nothingness. My body and brain had officially filed for bankruptcy and shut the doors.

Six hours later, I woke up smothered under snoozing dogs, the trailer completely dark. Nighttime. Actual bedtime. Great, I muttered to myself. I slept the day away, and now I won’t be able to sleep the night away.

I fed the naughty little squatters that had invaded my space and my reality, then took them to the gazebo to listen to the night and write. I imagined myself inside, cleaning and enjoying a beautiful, organized trailer—hoping my visualizations might magically manifest into reality.

We sat outside for a good part of an hour, the dogs calm now, constantly pressing up against my chair for chest and butt scratches—as if to say, “Sorry, Mommy, for ruining your sleep and your day.” When we finally went inside, I had grand plans: dishes, laundry, floors, dusting. With work-from-home tomorrow, I wanted to step into a freshly reset house-on-wheels. The last few days I’d been a total slob, not even bothering to pick up after myself, and tonight the toll came due.

Thankfully, it only took about an hour to clean, organize, and reset the trailer. One of the perks of RV life: less space to maintain (and yes, less space to destroy).

As I vacuumed and dusted, though, I stumbled upon yet another crisis: ants. A full invasion was underway in the dog bed area. Where they were coming from is still a mystery, but I went full commando—cleaned the entire area and then unleashed the real ant spray. This was no time for natural remedies or gentle deterrents. Since it was inside, I wasn’t worried about bees or butterflies, and this definitely called for the big guns. The queen had clearly sent her spies ahead, strategically placing them in wait for the perfect moment to launch their attack. Caught red-handed, all they could do was retreat—until next time.

Once in the house cleaning, I finally managed a little side project—I set up my kitchen faucet so I could use both the faucet and washing machine at the same time. It isn’t pretty, but it’s functional, it doesn’t leak, and that counts as a plumbing win in my book. My grand goal is to remove the two drawers in the bedroom and eventually tuck the washer into the closet with the dryer, but until those renovation dreams come true, this will do the trick.

Feeling accomplished, I sat down to work on my blog.

Here’s the part where I feel a little judged—I have multiple artist friends, plus my Auntie, and they hate AI. Unfortunately, none of them have time—or frankly the desire—to draw for me, and I don’t draw. So, I use AI for my digital videos and pictures. I can almost hear their judgement, but honestly? I enjoy it. It takes my ideas and helps me bring them to life. It’s not instant—it still takes hours of tinkering, editing, and recording voiceovers. I know there’s a lot of controversy around AI, but for people like me, it opens doors I wouldn’t otherwise have. It gives me the tools to put pictures to my stories.

As I tinkered with AI, my music drowned out the washing machine running in the background. For as long as I could keep my eyes open, the washer would keep churning away—because not only had I been a slob in the house, I also hadn’t touched laundry in days. I’m supposed to not procrastinate, to do a load daily. Fail, I thought. Why am I like this? I blame my Canadian friend for getting me hooked on a new game.

So, I tinkered, the washer hummed, the dogs snored, and eventually I admitted defeat. Sleep was coming whether I wanted it or not—and tomorrow’s chaos would arrive soon enough.

Lessons of the Day

  1. A wet nose alarm clock set for 4 a.m. comes with slobber, chest-crushing, and zero snooze button.

  2. Positive intent is cute—until you realize “potty” was code for take me to the gazebo, peasant.

  3. Cabin fever + dogs = neighbors judging me like I’m the villain in a doggy soap opera.

  4. Recliners double as thrones when you pass out like royalty… drool and all.

  5. Neighbors’ calm dogs exist only to highlight how feral mine look mid-barkathon.

  6. Cardboard signs might be the best way to rehome naughty pups: “I’m a bad dog. Mommy will pay YOU to take me.”

  7. RV perk: cleaning only takes an hour. RV curse: it needs cleaning every single hour.

  8. Ants are not pests—they’re spies of the Queen, plotting full-scale invasions from the dog bed.

  9. Plumbing doesn’t have to be pretty; if it doesn’t leak, it’s a plumbing win worthy of a crown.

  10. AI art might not win me popularity points, but it wins me sanity points—and that’s priceless.

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Paws, Pixels & Coffee: Tails from the Gazebo