Sacred places. Places of restoration and memory. For some people that place is church. For some it’s the mountains.

For me, it is my cousin’s beach condo where we gather to eat foods decadent concern a cardiologist and pretend that baseball statistics count as intellectual conversation.

And for Winnie Lew, it is apparently the site of repeated public humiliation.

You may recall from previous years that Winnie Lew once took it upon herself to become the self-appointed protector of elderly Savannah and solve an ongoing interpersonal dispute with Pippa the Yorkie by peeing in Pippa’s toy box.

A bold move. An unethical move. But undeniably effective.

As a result of that incident, Winnie Lew has spent subsequent beach trips under what I can only describe as canine parole.

Dog diapers, originally duck patterned. Then floral. Always unnecessary. But once trust is broken at the condo, apparently there is no statute of limitations.

This year, however, brought a new twist. Winnie Lew discovered escape.

Now, before anyone starts imagining elaborate engineering, understand that Winnie Lew is not what I would call mechanically gifted. Operating a treat puzzle can be a challenge and she once barked angrily at her own reflection for ten minutes.

But necessity is the mother of invention. We arrived and went through our now familiar routine.

Long walk. Extra potty breaks. Final lecture. “Winnie Lew, we are guests. We are not solving problems or making statements. We are not establishing dominance.” She stared at me with the expression of someone falsely accused.

Then came the diaper.

Only this year, my once-slightly-snug solution had become… optimistic. The fit was less “secure canine garment” and more “low-rise jeans at a middle school dance.”

Within twenty minutes of entering the condo, I noticed something odd. There was Winnie Lew. And there were the diapers, but no longer together. The diaper sat abandoned in the hallway like a tiny surrender flag.

Winnie Lew sat nearby pretending she had absolutely no idea how such a thing could have happened. Coincidence, clearly.

Back into the diaper she went. Thirty minutes later – Gone. Again. This time found under the dining room table. No witnesses. Third attempt. This time I tightened things.

She gave me a long look that I can only describe as “you’ve chosen violence.”

Twenty minutes later she emerged waddling around with the diaper halfway down her backside. Not off. Not on. Just… hanging there.

My cousin looked over and immediately declared: “Good Lord. Pants on the ground.”

And thus a nickname was born. POTG. Pants on the Ground. The artist formerly known as Winnie Lew.

For the remainder of the trip she developed what appeared to be an intentional system: Step one: walk normally. Step two: casually lower hindquarters. Step three: wiggle. Step four: continue moving while garment migrated south.

She never fully escaped while supervised, but she remained committed to the cause. Like a tiny furry prisoner tunneling out with a spoon.

Unfortunately for her, freedom was not her biggest problem this year. Weather was. Because after months of dreaming about beach walks and salty breezes and porch nap…it rained.

Every. Single. Day. Not beach mist. Not passing showers. Biblical rain. The kind where you start wondering whether somebody nearby built an ark without telling you.

The ocean itself seemed annoyed. The sky remained aggressively gray from morning until night.

The adults adapted reasonably well. We watched baseball. Cooked too much food. Worked a puzzle. Read books. Had the same conversation seventeen times.

But Winnie Lew had expectations. This was BEACH. Beach means outside. Beach means inspecting sand. Beach means patrolling for suspicious seagulls.

Instead she stood at the sliding glass door staring at sheets of rain with visible disappointment.

And then came the yellow raincoat. Now, to be clear, nobody wants to buy their dog a raincoat. You buy one because your dog gives you no choice. The coat itself was objectively adorable. Bright yellow. Little hood with a duck bill. Tiny reflective trim.

It made Winnie Lew look like either a preschool crossing guard or a retired fisherman.

She hated it immediately. When I pulled it out she froze. She looked at me. Looked at the coat. Looked back at me. I have never felt more judged. Once dressed, she would walk exactly six feet outside and stop.

No sniffing. No exploration. Just standing motionless in protest while rain tapped on her little hood. Then she would slowly turn around and stare at the stairway.

Not bark. Not whine. Just look. The expression said: You caused this. One afternoon I attempted encouragement. “Come on, Winnie! Beach adventure!” She took three dramatic steps, looked up into the rain, and then sat down with such theatrical disappointment that I almost apologized.

Meanwhile my cousin stood at the balcony laughing and saying: “Pants on the Ground and Duckie Raincoat.” It sounded less like a dog and more like an indie folk band.

At one point Winnie Lew actually hid when she heard me pick up the raincoat. No running or resisting. She simply disappeared.

We found her twenty minutes later silently sitting in the guest closet, totally unavailable.

The rain continued. By day four she stopped even pretending to enjoy vacation. She no longer rushed to the door.

She spent most of her time curled dramatically under a blanket occasionally opening one eye as if to confirm we were still ruining her life.

When suitcases finally appeared on departure day, something remarkable happened. Winnie Lew stood up. Tail wag. Immediate energy. No hesitation.

I packed my clothes. Put my unused bathing suits and sunscreen back in the beach bag.

She waited by the door. The diaper bag came out. No reaction. The raincoat appeared. She physically turned away. Message received.

Once loaded into the car, she settled immediately into her seat and sighed. Not a tired sigh. A relieved sigh. The sigh of someone who had endured hardship and emerged changed.

She stared forward out the front window as we left the beach behind. No looking back. No sentiment. Just peace.

I like to think she learned something. Perhaps that dignity cannot be found in a yellow duck raincoat. Perhaps freedom is worth fighting for. Or perhaps she simply concluded that vacation is overrated.

Whatever the lesson, my Co-Pilot arrived home, trotted into the yard, felt the breeze through her unencumbered backside fluff, and gave me a look that said:

Next year we’re going to the mountains.

Amy George is an Episcopal priest in Selma, Alabama, where she shares an office with her volunteer pastoral care assistant, Winnie Lew. When not doing God’s work, you can find Amy doing Dog’s work–vacuuming a never ending supply of dog hair, chauffeuring Winnie Lew, and being the provider of endless dog treats. Amy feels blessed to have no fear of ever being attacked by squirrels, UPS delivery people, or small lizards.