Once upon a recent Tuesday, in the great suburban kingdom of Backgardenia, there lived a noble, misunderstood, and slightly dramatic husky named Athena.
Athena wasn’t just any husky. Oh, no. She was The Elegant One. The Pack Leader. The Jumping Furniture Olympian of 2024. Her coat shimmered in shades of silver, black and white, as though she had been lovingly sculpted by winter itself. One of her eyes held the cold intensity of a glacier, the other, the warm wisdom of ancient oak forests. She was known by many names: Princess, Miss Pants, and on especially mischievous days, the destroyer.
She was swift. She was smart. She was stunning. And she would rather perish in a pit of overripe bananas than get her dainty, precious toe beans wet. 
Yes, Athena had standards. You see, grass was acceptable only when it was dry, warm, and cut to exactly 3.7 cm. Rain? Blasphemy. Puddles? A war crime. Wet paws? Grounds for immediate mutiny. She strutted through muddy fields like an absolute queen, sure, but that was intentional mud. Controlled chaos. Garden dew, on the other hand? A personal attack.
Her brother, Obito, the great galumphing Malamute, was a creature of chaos incarnate. Picture a baby moose in a fur coat who had just discovered joy for the first time, every single day. At ten months old, he was approximately the size of a small pony and had the coordination of a tipsy giraffe. His black mask and tan eyebrows made him look constantly surprised, which was fitting, as he was always surprised. By everything. Even his own feet. Especially his own feet.
He’d tumble into rooms like a wrecking ball of fluffy affection, with no understanding of personal space, gravity, or Newtonian physics. His love language? Full-body slams and sloppy kisses that left the recipient questioning their life choices. He responded to everything, praise, scolding, food being opened across the continent, with his trademark expression, a goofy, toothy grin and tail-wagging that could clear a coffee table.
Together, they formed the yin and yang of garden guardians, Athena the graceful, opinionated ruler of all she surveyed, Obito the joyous himbo with paws the size of dinner plates.
The Incident occurred at precisely 2:03 PM.
The sun was out. Birds were singing. The flowers (the survivors, anyway) basked in the warmth.
It was a glorious day to be a plant, sun shining, breeze gentle, not a single canine paw in the flowerbeds (yet). The garden basked in peace.
And then, disaster.
The Human appeared… clutching the Hosepipe.
Athena spotted the infernal object immediately. Her ears went up. Her eye twitched. The hose had returned.
Now, let us be clear, the hosepipe was not a simple garden tool. It was her arch-nemesis, her Voldemort, her Moriarty. It had haunted her since puppyhood, spitting with icy venom and ruining perfectly dry paws. The water dragon. The Garden Serpent. Satan’s spaghetti.
She watched with royal disdain as The Human began watering the flowerbeds (a task Athena considered a waste of time since she had plans to dig them up later anyway). Athena positioned herself on her observation deck, also known as the patio chair she was explicitly not allowed on and narrowed her eyes.
Obito, of course, saw things differently.
“IS THAT SPRINKLY SNAKE TIME??” he barked, barreling out the door with the speed of a toddler on espresso. “OH BOY OH BOY OH BOY!”
He chased the hose with reckless abandon, yipping with glee, snapping at the water, slipping in mud, and laughing the whole time, yes, dogs can laugh, and Obito did it loudly and ungracefully.
Athena, however, had declared DEFCON 1.
She sprang into action with the speed of a caffeinated ninja. Her mission, to avoid a single droplet of peasant hose-water.
She parkoured across lawn chairs, soared over flower pots, scaled the barbecue like a goat on a yoga ball. Her movements were elegant, practiced, dramatic. She was the Cirque du Soleil of anti-wetness.
“OH NO IT’S COMING FOR YOUR FACE,” Obito yelled, leaping into the water spray like a manic dolphin.
Athena turned to growl an insult at him “You absolute soggy embarrassment!”, but in doing so, misjudged her next landing. Instead of reaching the safety of the picnic table, she flailed her back legs with the desperation of someone who just realized they’re out of toilet paper and went sploosh.
Into the birdbath.
There was silence. The water stilled. Time itself stopped.
Obito gasped audibly. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel dropped its acorn in shock.
Athena slowly rose from the birdbath like a soggy, wrathful sea creature. Her fur was plastered to her frame. Her ears drooped with betrayal. Her eyes, one pale blue, one chestnut, now radiated one message, and one message only,
"I will destroy the plumbing industry."
She stood in silence, water dripping dramatically from her tail, as The Human tried very hard not to laugh and failed spectacularly.
Obito, tail still wagging, approached her cautiously.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
She did not respond.
“You look like a drowned alpaca.”
Athena snapped. She launched out of the birdbath and into a full-blown tantrum, galloping into the house and flinging herself onto a mountain of blankets in protest. Only after being fully burritoed in fleece and fed two biscuits did she allow the humans to make eye contact again.
Obito plopped down beside her, tongue out, tail thudding against the floor like a poorly tuned drum.
“Can we do it again tomorrow?”
She didn’t answer. But the look she gave him said it all.
Though Athena never truly forgave the hose, or gravity for that matter, she was comforted by the fact that Obito, her beloved brother, would always be there to take the wettest splash… and the goofiest fall.
And so, Backgardenia slept once more, its flowers trembling gently in the breeze, not from the hose, but from fear of the Princess returning with a shovel.
Or worse, her paws.