A Canine’s Guide To Surviving Autumn Mania
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I like fall. The air finally stops trying to cook me alive, and I can sit in the yard without slow-roasting my hindquarters. The breeze smells like change. The leaves crunch under my paws. It’s a full sensory buffet.
It’s also peak squirrel surveillance season, and Snack Dad and I rotate between windows, monitoring every suspicious twitch of a tail. On especially pleasant days, I take the operation outside. I do make frequent trips back inside, though. They need to know I’m still on the clock, and frankly, morale suffers if I’m gone too long.
But even a top-level operative deserves a little downtime. A time for quiet moments on a soft blanket and long naps.
Or so I thought.
Because while I’m settling in to fall like the wise and noble canine I am, my human has entered what can only be described as autumn mania.
It started with a wreath. Then kitchen towels with blue pumpkins. Then a garland. And, somehow, it just escalated from there. Now I’m living in a house that looks like a Hallmark movie having an autumn decorating identity crisis.
Every flat surface is covered in pumpkins, acorns, gourds, or, my personal favorite, fake leaves. There’s a garland on the mantle in every room. A basket of pine cones I’m not allowed to chew. And the throws… oh, the throws. Three of them. Each one more blindingly autumn-colored than the last.
I’ve never been to Hobby Lobby, but I think I live there now.
The whole house smells like candles called “Autumn Wreath.” Snack Dad, in a lapse of judgment, asked my human about them. Now he’s hiding in his shop, traumatized by too much information on “notes of cinnamon and woody vanilla.” I’m avoiding eye contact with her and hoping the smell doesn’t soak into my fur.
I thought the porch might remain a safe zone. A quiet, neutral space where a dog could enjoy the fresh air and contemplate life. I was wrong. First, there was a single pumpkin. Classic. Tasteful. I gave it a sniff of approval.
Then, suddenly, mums appeared, more pumpkins stacked on top of each other, pillows everywhere, and a relentlessly cheerful sign ordering, “Have a Happy Fall, Y’all.” So the porch, my last refuge, has fallen. I will adjust. I always do. But, let the record show, I did not go willingly.
What should a dog do when surrounded by pumpkins, pillows, and the lingering scent of “woody vanilla”? I sigh, give up the fight, and decide a nap is my best course of action. I jump up on the couch, circle twice, flop down on one of the new throws. Fine. I’ll admit it’s pretty soft. Warm, too. Maybe even… cozy. As the smell of cinnamon and vanilla drifts by, my eyelids get heavy, and I decide that surviving fall might not be so bad after all.
But just to be clear, if she brings home that glitter-covered pumpkin she was eyeing online, I’m retreating to the bedroom. I will not live in a sparkle-infested environment. At least, not until Christmas.
