Eleven Dogs, One Storm, and No One Got Pregnant: A Quiet Weekend Gone Feral

While Megan, Austin, and Alida took off for a sunny (and slightly soggy) weekend in Wilmington, Jamie and I stayed behind for what was supposed to be our “quiet weekend.”

You know the kind. The mythical, never-actually-real weekend where you get to sleep in, maybe take a peaceful walk, eat food that didn’t come out of a paper bag, wasn’t microwaved, and didn’t involve stepping over a bowl of kibble or someone’s tail to eat it.

Instead, we got:

One tropical storm system
Four additional dogs
Seven regulars already living here
Mud, fur, and emotional instability (mostly mine)
And the sudden realization that “quiet weekend” is just a phrase people use when they hate themselves

It Always Starts with Good Intentions

Jamie’s been rescuing dogs for years. She’s placed more unwanted mutts into loving homes than some shelters do in a fiscal year. She does it all with a sixth sense, like a psychic who only sees pit bulls and vet bills. I’ve seen her take one look at a Craigslist post and say, “We need to leave right now,” and an hour later we’re in a parking lot with a trembling husky and someone’s ex-girlfriend crying behind a Sonic.

So when the kids asked if we could watch their dogs “just for the weekend,” I didn’t even blink. Jamie would have a plan. I’d stay out of the way.

She did have a plan.

Color-coded feeding charts
Rotational outdoor time based on temperament and vendettas
Towels pre-positioned like sandbags before a hurricane
Special chews for emotional regulation
Backup crates, emergency leashes, and “do not touch” notes taped to specific doors

My job?
Hold the door and try not to get trampled, peed on, or emotionally broken.

Meet the Visitors (a.k.a. The Freeloaders)

Gunner – The Warm Potato
Gunner is a Lab mix who appears to be held together by gravity and apathy. He moves like a beanbag with opinions. He only reacts to two things: the word “treat” and the sound of Noah breathing near him, which he takes as a personal insult. He's sweet, but if he were a person, he’d be the uncle who sits in the recliner all Thanksgiving muttering “these mashed potatoes are different.”

Ellie – The Off-Centered Angel
Ellie is a Rottweiler with a paw shaped like a lobsters claw and a famously off-kilter butthole. I don’t know how else to put that. She was never supposed to survive puppyhood, and the only reason I said yes to keeping her was because I didn’t think she would survive puppyhood. Now she’s a couch fixture with soulful eyes, a serious side-eye, and the uncanny ability to wipe her paws on the welcome mat like she pays a mortgage. That dogs is Wicked smart

Piper – E.T. in a Blanket
Imagine if someone made a dog out of leftover dachshund and greyhound parts and then wrapped it in a sherpa throw and left it on your recliner. That’s Piper. She doesn’t bark. She communicates with stares that say, “I knew Caesar.” She’s got her own personalized calendar and she poses for it like it’s a tax write-off. Every photo shoot is themed. I’m not joking.

Ozzy – Queen of the Wrecking Ball
A 120-pound Rottweiler puppy with the emotional intelligence of a monster truck. She doesn’t walk—she enters a room like she’s been shot out of a cannon. She doesn’t play—she makes contact. She’s not mean, she’s just... kinetic. Jamie has done an incredible job teaching her manners, but she still greets you like an aggressive Best Buy display during Black Friday. She’s lovable, hilarious, and may one day be studied by engineers for her ability to generate wind indoors.

Our Regular Cast of Furry Misfits

Noah lives in a permanent state of trembling dread. He’s like if a tax audit was reincarnated as a rescue dog. Every sudden noise, movement, or reflection sends him into a full-body existential crisis. He reminds me of Mitch McConnell just before a press conference—on the verge of bolting but unsure where to go.

Cassie and Ozzy have history. And by history, I mean mutual disdain and unresolved trauma. Putting them near each other is like trying to host a reunion for Fleetwood Mac with no supervision.

Titus, my ride-or-die, tries to keep the peace. He’s Switzerland in all this, but even he’s struggling to keep the dogs from turning the living room into Thunderdome.

The Yorkies—Jamie says they only count as one dog total, but I disagree. Especially when both try to sit on the same knee during dinner like they’re entering a pageant. Mercedes, the second smallest of the bunch, believes she’s a Rottweiler until she gets pancaked by actual Rottweilers during hallway traffic. Jamie constantly has to pluck her from the battlefield like a war medic.

Jamie’s War Room

Jamie ran this operation like a general with a clipboard and a thousand-yard stare.

She had a system for everything:

Crates positioned like bunkers
Feeding rotations timed down to the minute
Assignments posted like military orders: “Do not let Dog A and Dog B out at the same time or we all die.”

At one point, I watched her crate dogs just so another could come out to stretch their legs. Then she swapped them like she was running a dog-based version of musical chairs. No one got bit. No one got pregnant. That’s a win in my book.

She refereed like an Olympic judge, cleaned like she was trying to impress a CSI unit, and somehow maintained mascara, sanity, and strategic advantage.

If Jamie had been in charge of the Titanic evacuation, all souls would’ve been saved—dogs included—and the band would’ve been escorted off first with snacks and dry socks.

Ugh

Cue the Biblical Rainstorm

Because the universe has a sense of humor, a monsoon rolled in mid-weekend.

I found myself in full rain gear, walking what felt like 200 paws through a sideways storm while trying to remember which ones refused to pee on wet grass and which ones preferred puddles. By the time I got back inside, I was soaked, the floor was slick with mud, and the entire house smelled like a wet dog exploded inside a Yankee Candle outlet.

Jamie just lit another candle and handed me a towel with the calm of someone who has seen worse—and probably cleaned it with Nature’s Miracle.

Grandpaw’s Final Thoughts

Now that the kids are on their way back, we’ve torn down crates, cleaned every surface twice, and collected enough shed fur to knit a fourth Yorkie.

Do I love the dogs? Of course.
Do I love the kids? Absolutely.
Do I love eleven dogs in my house during a tropical storm? Less so.

But the best part of dog-sitting, like grandparenting, is this:

You get to give them back.

Jamie, of course, handled it all like she always does—with heart, grit, and industrial-strength cleaner.

She is the Queen of the Rescue Ranch, the Commanding General of the Crate Brigade, and the only woman alive who can manage eleven dogs, a monsoon, and me—without breaking a sweat.

As for me? I’m hiding in the bathroom with my phone and a piece of string cheese.

Because I earned it.

Search This Blog