The Lake Hopper Chronicles

If we had known then what we know now, we might have secured a camera person… or at least a referee. July 8, 2025, was supposed to be a relaxing, scenic paddle around Smithville Lake—just Meg, me, and our two hyperactive corgis, Maverick and Kali. We had this vision in our heads: smooth water, wagging tails, maybe a sandwich break on a quiet shore. Reality, as usual, had other plans.

We kicked things off with enormous optimism. Everyone was in high spirits, the corgis proudly donning their red life vests as if heading off to a doggie regatta. Meg’s smile, my goofy thumbs-up, the dogs’ wide-eyed grins—it was all peak adventure energy.

The lake itself did its best to lull us into a false sense of serenity. Clouds puffed by lazily overhead, and the surface shimmered like glass. One of the pups sat calmly at the edge of Meg’s kayak, eyes locked on mine, clearly itching to cause mayhem.

Cue Maverick, stage left. In a jealous twist worthy of a soap opera subplot, he hurled himself from Meg’s kayak into mine, misjudged the distance, and belly-flopped into the drink before scrambling aboard with soggy determination. I was still laughing when he launched himself back again. Within minutes, he’d crossed the gap so many times I started calling him the Lake Hopper.

Kali, not to be upstaged, soon joined the fray. At first, she was the picture of paddleboard poise, sitting upright like she’d trained for this moment her whole life.

But tranquility is not in Kali's vocabulary. With the force of a tiny, fur-covered torpedo, she dove off my kayak directly toward Maverick... and promptly flipped me into the lake. One second I was gliding peacefully, the next I was gulping lake water and trying to find my paddle. Meanwhile, Kali floated beside me in her vest, looking entirely pleased with herself. Meg couldn’t breathe for laughing. Neither could I.

Eventually, I clambered back in, wetter but no wiser. And we simply accepted what our day had become: more dog swap than scenic paddle, more splashing than gliding, more laughter than we’d had in weeks. Amidst the chaos, there were still these rare golden pauses—floating there side by side, one dog curled up in each lap, the sun kissing our damp skin, everything warm and perfectly ridiculous.

When we finally made it back to shore, clothes sopping, muscles aching, and spirits absolutely soaring, we could barely remember how peaceful the lake had looked before the madness began. What we did remember, though, was laughing so hard our stomachs hurt, Maverick stealing a granola bar, and Kali barking proudly into the wind like she owned all of Sailboat Cove.

Would we do it again? Absolutely.

But next time—we’re bringing towels.