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There's a woman at my dog park I watched for three Saturdays before I worked up the nerve to ask her a weird question. Some context, because I promise I'm not usually like this. I'm forty-five, I'm in Milwaukee, and I got divorced in October. It was about as friendly as those things get, which is to say the lawyers were polite and I cried in a Culver's parking lot exactly twice. We split everything without drama except there was never a conversation about Beau — the rescue, golden-something, seventy pounds of unearned confidence — because everyone including the dog knew he was staying with me. Beau and I have a system now. Saturday, 7 a.m., the dog park on the west side, before the crowd shows up. Same gate, same bench, same three laps after fetch. Twenty-two Saturdays in a row, if you're counting. I was counting. Here's the part nobody tells you about dog parks: you get two hands, and they're both taken. Beau's leash takes one until we're through the double gate. The Chuckit takes the other, full time, because if the throwing stops he files a complaint with his whole body. Add poop bags, treats, my phone — and my water never made it out of the car. Not once. My Hydro Flask sat in the cupholder like a dog I'd left home, and I'd come back an hour later and chug it warm in the parking lot. That was the system. I want to be honest that I never questioned it. The math felt settled: dog gets the hands. Water waits. Then in April I noticed her. Other side of the park, border collie that treats fetch like a career. And the thing I noticed — the thing I could not stop noticing — was that she had both hands going AND her drink was with her. Big cup, riding her hip in a little crossbody, straw up. Throw with one hand, treat with the other, take a sip mid-fetch without pausing anything. I watched her drink cold water at a dog park with a dog in motion and felt something I can only describe as professional jealousy. Saturday one, I noticed. Saturday two, I angled my bench for a better view of her setup, which is objectively unhinged behavior and I own it. Saturday three, Beau stole her dog's ball — rescues are wingmen, this is documented — and while the dogs sorted out jurisdiction, we ended up ten feet apart. I am not a person who talks to strangers at 7 a.m. I used to have a husband for that. But she was right there, hands free, cup riding her hip like it was no big deal. "Okay," I said. "I have to ask about the cup thing." She lit up the way people do when you ask about the exact right thing. "It's called a Sippy — this is my whole dog park kit. Cup rides here, it's insulated so it actually stays cold out here. Phone's zipped in the front. Treats in the side pocket. Keys on a hook inside so they quit diving to the bottom." Then she stuck out her hand. "Deb, by the way." Deb. Border collie named Scout. I knew the dog's name three weeks before I knew hers, which I believe is dog park law. I ordered one that night on my couch with Beau's head on my knee. It's by Emmafy — and they had a buy one get one free going, so my sister in Madison got the second one. Two labs, zero free hands, you understand. The next Saturday I walked through the double gate with the leash in one hand, the Chuckit in the other, and my water ON me. Cold. Present. Attending. Throw. Treat. Drink. All three, no juggling, no walking back to the car like a pilgrim. Beau did not notice my personal growth. Deb did. She raised her cup off her hip about an inch, and I raised mine, and that was the whole ceremony. We do the three laps together now, after fetch. Scout herds Beau, Beau allows it, and Deb and I talk about nothing for forty minutes, which, in the year I've had, is everything. Last Saturday she texted me — texted, like a friend does — "usual time?" Twenty-two Saturdays alone on a bench, and the thing that finally started a conversation was a cup in a sling. Fair warning on the practical side: it's not a dog bag. The towel and the backup tennis balls still live in the trunk. It carries MY stuff — water, phone, keys, treats, cards — and it turns out that's the entire list of what I ever needed on me. If your water waits in the car while you do the two-hand shuffle. If you've ever studied a stranger's setup across a park and felt that very specific jealousy. If the dog took one hand and life took the other — The buy one get one free is still going. Summer sale. One for you, one for your Madison, whoever that is. You don't have to talk to strangers. But keep a hand free to wave. emmafy.com/sippy