A tale of trust, betrayal, and very dirty paws

It was a beautiful evening — the kind that tricks you into forgetting every past experience involving mud, dogs, and regret.

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and Riot, my gloriously unhinged Belgian Malinois, was trotting along beside me like a perfect gentleman. For a moment, I almost believed I had a well-behaved dog.

He looked calm. Content. Dare I say… angelic?

And that’s when I made the mistake.

I saw the puddle. A big, obvious, unapologetic muddy puddle, right there ahead of us on the path. It wasn’t sneaky or disguised. It was just there, being muddy, minding its own business.

And I thought — I actually thought —
“He won’t go in it. He’s like Kai. He won’t want to get his paws dirty.”

Reader, he absolutely did.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Riot threw himself into that puddle like it was a ball pit made of dreams. Mud flew in every direction. Birds took flight. My hopes and dreams sank.

He splashed. He rolled. He flopped on his back with the wild-eyed joy of a dog who knows full well you can’t do a thing to stop him now.

I stood there, frozen in disbelief, wondering how I’d come to this point in life — ankle-deep in regret and splattered with glee.

Then, of course, he shook.

A full-bodied, theatrical, slow-motion shake that sent muddy droplets flying in every direction — including, naturally, all over me.

There I was: soaked, speckled, and internally screaming.

Riot, meanwhile, was thrilled with himself. His tail wagged like it was trying to achieve lift-off. He looked like he’d won a prize, and in a way, I suppose he had.

I wiped a chunk of mud off my eyebrow and sighed.

“I brought this on myself,” I muttered.

And Riot just wagged harder — because I did.