The night I broke into my dog’s house was not my finest moment, but it was certainly one I’ll never forget. To be fair, it wasn’t really his house in the legal sense—he doesn’t pay rent, utilities, or property tax—but the way he guards it, sleeps in every corner, and leaves fur on every surface makes ownership feel debatable.
It all started when I stepped outside to take the trash out, barefoot and half-asleep. My dog, Max, followed me as usual, tail wagging like he was supervising an important operation. The door shut behind us with a solid click. I felt that click echo in my soul. My keys were inside. My phone was inside. My dignity would soon be left outside as well.
Max, meanwhile, sat calmly on the porch, staring at me. From his expression, you would think I was the one who had locked him out. I tried the door handle—locked. I checked the windows—secure. I peered through the glass and saw my couch, my kitchen, and my spare keys lying mockingly on the counter.
That’s when I realized something painful: I wasn’t locked out of my house. I was locked out of Max’s house.
I circled the yard like a cartoon burglar, checking fences and looking for options. Max followed me closely, occasionally stopping to sniff something deeply important. When I spotted the back window slightly ajar, my heart raced. I dragged over a patio chair, climbed up, and squeezed through with all the grace of a startled raccoon.
The moment I landed inside, Max started barking wildly from outside. Not a warning bark—an accusatory bark. It was as if he was saying, “INTRUDER! STRANGER! PERSON WHO FED ME DINNER BUT DID NOT ASK PERMISSION!”
I tiptoed through the kitchen, whispering apologies to my own dog, while he ran to the back door and continued barking at me through the glass. I grabbed the spare keys, unlocked the door, and opened it with a flourish.
Max stopped barking immediately and walked past me without a glance. He inspected the living room, sniffed the couch, and finally looked up at me as if to say, Everything seems in order. You may stay.
That night, as Max curled up on the bed and pushed me to the edge, I accepted the truth. I don’t own a house. I live in my dog’s house. And if I ever break in again, I hope he’s merciful enough to let me stay.
