A Girl Moved Into My Dog’s House – A Tail of Unexpected Tenancy
It started on a Tuesday. A completely normal Tuesday, the kind of Tuesday that smells like burnt toast and mild regret. I went outside to feed Rufus—my 90-pound golden retriever with the emotional stability of a toddler at a birthday party—and that’s when I saw it:
A girl. In his doghouse.
Not a small child. Not a metaphorical girl. A full-sized, college-aged human woman, sitting cross-legged inside Rufus’s doghouse like it was a tiny Airbnb with a 5-star squirrel-view.
She looked up at me and smiled. “Hey.”
Now, I’ve handled a lot in my life. I’ve unclogged mysterious drains. I’ve made eye contact with my boss after accidentally replying “love you” on a company-wide email. But this? This was new.
“Uh,” I began eloquently, “Are you aware you’re in a doghouse?”
She nodded, completely unbothered. “Yeah. It’s cozy. And Rufus said it was cool.”
I looked at Rufus. Rufus looked at me. His tail wagged slowly, as if to say, “I’m just as confused as you are, bro.”
The girl introduced herself as Marley. Apparently, she’d been out for a walk, got lost, and—this is the part that really blew my brain—asked the dog for directions. He “led” her back to the doghouse, and she took it as an invitation to move in. Like some sort of furry real estate agent.
She’d made herself at home, too. There was a throw pillow, a mini lantern, and what appeared to be a half-eaten granola bar neatly placed on a folded napkin. Rufus, who never lets me in the doghouse without growling like a bouncer at an exclusive nightclub, was curled up next to her like she was dog royalty.
I tried logic. “You can’t live in a doghouse.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what society says. But have you ever really lived in one?”
I tried reasoning. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No,” she said. “Rufus is a very warm boy.”
I even tried bribery. “There’s a Panera Bread two blocks down. Real food. Human food.”
She considered this. “I do like bread bowls.”
It took three more conversations, a full peanut butter jar, and one firm discussion with Rufus (who is now apparently fluent in Girl), but Marley eventually agreed to leave the doghouse and return to her actual apartment down the street—though not without promising Rufus weekly visits and a handwritten lease agreement for “occasional nap privileges.”
Now, Rufus stares longingly at his empty doghouse, probably wondering if another quirky human will come along and squat there. I check it every morning just to be sure.
So if you see a girl sitting in a doghouse, don’t be alarmed. She’s probably just making friends.
Or looking for bread bowls.
Or, worst of all, she asked the dog for directions—and he said yes.
