I was being a good boy, not a care in the world, when they dropped the bomb on me. “Howard! You’re going to a COTTAGE!” I had no idea what they were talking about, so I said, “BowWOW!” and did zoomies around the room to show team spirit. But deep down, my inner tail was tucked. “Cottage” was not only not in my lexicon (100 words, give or take), it was not in my routine, and I am ALL about routine: snooze/eat/walk/snooze/eat/walk/repeat. Routine makes me happy. Would Cottage? I worried until someone gave me a chewstick. What Cottage?
One day, we went on a car ride and stopped in a place of trees and water called Cottage. I stuck my head out the window and my nose blew up! I could smell wild stuff, rotting stuff, fishy stuff, pine sap, woodsmoke, bacon grease, wet towels, and lovely stinks I had no words for. I knew if they opened the hatch and let me loose, I’d lose my brains. They did. I went crackerdog, tearing down the dock, up the stairs, around the deck, whizzing in circles and barking insanely while everybody laughed. It was embarrassing. I wished they’d just offloaded me into a corner where I could decompress from car to Planet Cottage instead of frying my scentsory circuits.
Before I had time to explain this to my fam, I was bombarded by the resident canines, a pair of bossy beasts who investigated my bits without asking. So rude! If that wasn’t intimidating enough, they were golden retrievers, with flowing blond tresses and superior genes! I’m a terrier-poodle mutt so obvi no match for Cottage Dog Gods Tyler and Taylor, who acted like they owned the place (cuz they do). I, on the other hand, displayed beta body language and retreated behind my folks.
We went inside the Cottage Box, where new humans were holding bottles and calling my name. One offered me a cookie, which I liked until they started patting my head. Whoa! I don’t think so. Maybe the Dog Gods are cool with this but most of us don’t want you sticking your hands in our faces until we get to know you. My signals went unseen.
Soon I was surrounded by super-social, beer-drinking strangers groping me. WTF? Where are my people when I need them? I saw a lowkey type vibing in a Muskoka chair and lay down beside her. She let me be me, and I fell in love.
It was so nice and calm, I could’ve stayed with my BFF all afternoon. But no, there were Cottage Rituals to be enforced, like making the new dog go in the “lake.” Did you know poodles are excellent swimmers, bred to retrieve ducks from water? Me neither. My people coaxed me to the edge and threw sticks while others hooted and the Dog Gods rolled their eyes. Haze me all you want, but no way was I going in that gigantic bathtub. It required mojo and mine was MIA.
By now, my folks had clued in that I had my own cottage rules: incremental intros to new humans, pooches, and places, with me time to regroup from it all. From then on, they followed the program. I had a sunny siesta on the deck, a little woodsy walk (leashed, lest I terrier-ize the chippies), and a burger (no choking corn cobs!) with the now-reformed gang. Following proper Howard etiquette, everybody two- and four-legged respectfully ignored me until I checked their credentials and said “hi.” By bedtime, despite loony-sounding sirens echoing over the lake, I felt almost myself. Or was it my Howard-at-a-Cottage self?
The answer came the next day, as we packed up and headed to the car. Passing the lake, now associated with my humiliation, I spotted something beaky bobbing offshore and I froze. My poodle genes howled, Whaddyawaitingfor?! I torpedoed into the water like a born retriever. Did I get the duck? No! Did I learn to swim? Yes! I had aura. Everybody was cheering and even Tyler-Taylor looked at me like I was (almost) one of them. Not a Dog God (never), but a Cottage Dog. All it took was time, training (for humans), and a terri-poo who found his mojo.
Howard lives with his family in Toronto. This is his first personal essay for Cottage Life.
This essay originally appeared as part of “Guests are from Mars, Hosts are from Venus,” in our Summer ’26 issue.
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