🐾 Shelly Sunday: Willie, the Pond Casanova & the Fish of Doom

This Sunday started like any other—me lacing up boots, Willie prancing around the house like we were about to scale Everest. His tail was wagging, ears perked, and that goofy grin of his already said “I have plans.”

We set off on a neighborhood walk, the kind where I think I’m leading—but let’s be real, Willie’s the one mapping the mission.

First stop? The yards of every one of his “girlfriends.” And by girlfriends, I mean any dog who’s ever batted an eyelash or barked twice in his direction. Willie sniffed every patch of grass like it held the secrets of the canine universe. A tuft of fur here, a rogue tennis ball there—he catalogued it all like a sniffer-dog Casanova.

Eventually, his GPS locked in on the park pond.

Now, I know this look. His whole body shifts forward, tail goes up, and the leash gets that pre-pull tension. I already knew where this was going. That water called to him like a siren. A nasty, algae-ridden, goose-poop-filled siren.

“Nope,” I said. “Not today, Aquadog.”

So instead of swimming, he made his own fun. Which, in Willie logic, meant something much worse.

He started darting around the tall grass like he’d struck gold. And then—there it was. The horror. The absolute crime scene.

A dead fish.

Not just any dead fish. A bloated, sun-baked, decomposing mud missile of a fish, probably dropped by a bird with bad aim and a worse diet.

Before I could even say “Willie, no!” he went full golden gremlin—shoulder drop, wiggle down, and committed rotational roll.
There was tail wagging. There was snorting. There was primal joy.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there with my hand over my mouth, watching the love of my life becoming one with roadkill sushi.

By the time I got him off it, he was proud. He smelled like a crime against nature. And worst of all? He had no regrets.

I swear he smiled the whole walk home. Meanwhile, I’m googling “how to get corpse stench off dog fur without shaving him bald.”

So yeah. That was our Shelly Sunday.
Moral of the story? Don’t let Willie lead… unless you want a noseful of pond perfume and an unforgettable memory.

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💬 Got a mud missile moment of your own? Drop it in the comments. Misery (and stink) loves company.