Saturday with Bella & the Dogs

Saturday with Bella & the Dogs

I didn’t expect today to be so transformational—just a simple Saturday, no bowling tournament, no schedule to rush into. But time with Bella, away from the usual rhythm, with our two muddy dogs and the open air, turned into something much more: a chance to teach, to laugh, to reconnect, and to just be together.

It started when I sat on the foot of Bella’s bed and gently tapped her leg to wake her up. I whispered softly about how it was Saturday morning—no bowling—but still a perfect day to get some driving practice in and take the dogs to the park.

As I spoke, she didn’t say a word. She simply raised her finger in the air and waved it side to side like a defensive basketball player who had just blocked a shot.

“No, no, no.”

I laughed to myself. But she got up.

We loaded up Bazel and Banana and headed to the dog park. On the way there, we came across a tense moment—bicyclists on both sides of the road and a tailgater pressing behind us. Bella was irritated, and I could feel the stress rise in her hands on the wheel. I calmly reminded her, “If you feel danger, just put your hazards on, pull over, and protect your peace.” She did. And the guy behind us sped past doing 70 in a 30. A real-life lesson in staying composed.

At the dog park, everything started off smooth: wide open fields, fetch sessions, and family laughter. But then… the dogs got really muddy.

Bazel splashed through every puddle she could find chasing her favorite ball. Banana walked through the water too, chasing shadows and soaking her legs. The wet dog smell hit us instantly.

Then nature called. Bazel went first, and I cleaned it up without a second thought. But when Banana followed, I asked Bella to take care of it. She said she would, but she hesitated—and I could tell she didn’t want to. So I did it myself, quietly choosing to model responsibility rather than demand it.

We tossed the ball again, watched the dogs play, and then decided it was time to clean them up.

As we drove back toward our side of town, Bella had the idea. We needed to fill up our five-gallon water jugs, and she said, “Hey, right next to the water station, we can wash the dogs too.” She was right—there’s a Paw Wash dog bath just a few feet from where we fill up our jugs.

So we headed there.

Barbi met us at the station—she hadn’t gone to the dog park. She stayed home to clean and mop the floors. Now she showed up ready to help scrub muddy dogs.

The machine didn’t give change, so we dropped a full $20 for a 12-minute wash, and I joked, “If we finish early, can I bathe you too like you jumped in the pool at USA Camp with no bathing suit?” Bella laughed out loud—she remembered.

Together, the three of us scrubbed Bazel and Banana until they were clean, rinsed, and wagging. We loaded them into my car, and Bella rode with Barbi to grab drinks from Corporal Ray’s. I took the dogs home and brought them through the back gate like Barbi asked, so they wouldn’t dirty her freshly mopped floors.

Today wasn’t about errands or tasks. It was about presence. It was about driving—both the literal kind and the deeper kind.

Bella drove. Barbi scrubbed.

The dogs ran wild.

I watched, guided, and soaked it all in.

This wasn’t just a Saturday.

This was the kind of memory that makes the whole week worth it