Sundae's Sundays: "Muddy Mayhem"

The spring rain had just ended, leaving behind a backyard that looked less like a lawn and more like a squishy, shimmering marshland. Raindrops clung to every blade of grass, glittering like diamonds in the early sun. Birds chirped, the air smelled like fresh earth, and puddles the size of small lakes had appeared like magic.

At the back door, Sundae sat vibrating with excitement. Her pink collar gleamed, and her paws tapped out a frantic drum solo on the floor. She looked up at me with wide, pleading eyes that said, "Please, oh please, let me make terrible choices today."

“No mud today, Sundae,” I warned as I opened the door. “You can play, but you stay out of the puddles. We just cleaned the house.”

She gave a little nod, which was suspicious. Sundae never nodded unless she was actively planning a crime. Out she trotted, tail wagging politely. She sniffed a daisy here and investigated a tulip petal, the very picture of innocence. I leaned against the doorframe, sipping my coffee, starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, we would have a lovely, dry Sunday.

That was my first mistake.

It started with a glance. One innocent second to check my phone. When I looked up, Sundae was already mid-air, a black and white cannonball of chaos, belly flopping into the largest, muddiest puddle in the yard. The splash was seismic. A rooster three houses down crowed in alarm. Mud flew skyward like a volcanic eruption. When it settled, there sat Sundae. She was chest-deep in muck, tongue lolling in triumph. She looked like she had been frosted in chocolate cake batter.

“Sundae!” I shrieked, setting down my coffee so hard it sloshed onto my shoes.

She blinked at me with the wide-eyed innocence of a dog who absolutely knew she was about to double down. I stomped through the soggy grass. My sneakers made awful squelching noises. “You. Out. Now.” I grabbed her collar with the stern authority of a frustrated kindergarten teacher.

Sundae grinned.

She twisted, launched out of the puddle, and kicked her muddy paws squarely into my shin. I flailed like a cartoon character on a banana peel and crashed backward into the same puddle with an undignified, world-class splat. The mud was cold. It was slimy. It was everywhere. I lay there blinking up at the sky. Sundae’s grinning face hovered over me like a very naughty angel. She licked my forehead once, delicately, like she was christening me King of the Puddle People.

Growling under my breath, I scrambled to my feet. I slipped once. Then twice. I left my pride behind in the sludge. Sundae, sensing her moment of opportunity, made a break for it. She rocketed toward the house, her ears pinned back in aerodynamic mischief. I screamed her name, but she was a pink-collared blur. I hit a sprint I had not attempted since high school gym class, but it was too late. Flap! Through the doggy door she went. The damage was already biblical when I stumbled into the house, dripping mud in my wake.

Tiny muddy pawprints danced across the kitchen, even on the cabinets, leading out to the living room. There was even a perfect, tiny pawprint on the front of the television. Sundae had paused to select a soundtrack for her destruction. I followed the trail to where Sundae was perched proudly atop the formerly white couch. Her pink collar was now a brownish hue. Her tongue lolled happily from her muddy face. In her mind, she looked exactly like a dog who had triumphed over adversity and returned home victorious. A single tulip petal, blown in by the breeze, landed atop her mud-splattered head like a coronation.

I collapsed onto the floor. I was too tired to be angry and too muddy to care. Sundae wagged her tail twice. She thumped her filthy paw onto my knee and sneezed, sending a fine spray of dirt into the air like confetti.

“Well," I said, looking around at the disaster zone we used to call a living room, "at least you had fun."

Sundae gave a cheerful bark as if to say, "Wait until you see what I have planned for next Sunday."

Outside, the rain started again. I did not even bother closing the door. At this point, nature was finishing the decorating.