My dog hid in a lamp, and I don’t mean behind it or under it, like a normal, reality-respecting animal. I mean inside it. Fully committed. A feat of geometry that still troubles me.
It started on an unusually quiet afternoon. No mail trucks rattling past, no neighbors arguing about recycling bins, not even the hum of the refrigerator. My dog, Milo—a medium-sized creature with the confidence of a wolf and the coordination of a dropped loaf of bread—was acting suspiciously calm. Too calm. He followed me from room to room, staring with wide, unblinking eyes, as if waiting for instructions from a higher power.
Then came the sound.
A single thump from the living room.
I went to investigate and found the lamp on its side, shade slightly tilted, cord stretched like a crime scene outline. Milo was nowhere to be seen. Panic bloomed. I checked the couch. Under the table. Behind the curtains. I even looked in the bathroom, because dogs are mysterious and occasionally disrespect privacy.
Then the lamp moved.
Not fell. Not rolled. Moved.
The lampshade wobbled, rotated a few inches, and froze. I stood there, staring, my brain trying to file this under “normal events” and failing. Slowly, the top of the lampshade lifted, and two eyes appeared in the darkness. Milo’s eyes. Calm. Proud. Victorious.
“How,” I whispered, because yelling felt inappropriate.
Apparently, during a moment of existential uncertainty—possibly triggered by the distant bark of a dog three streets away—Milo had decided the lamp was a safe, enclosed bunker. He had shoved his head into the shade, panicked halfway through, and continued forward out of sheer determination. His body folded in ways that suggested he had briefly transcended physical law.
When I tried to help him out, he resisted, digging in his paws like the lamp was a cozy cave he’d paid rent on. Every pull resulted in the shade sliding further down his body until he resembled a haunted piece of furniture. I imagined having to explain this to the vet. Yes, my dog became a lamp. No, this is not a metaphor.
Eventually, Milo wriggled free on his own, the lampshade popping off dramatically and rolling across the floor. He emerged unscathed, tail wagging, expression saying, I have conquered the home décor.
He strutted away, leaving me with a dented lamp, a fractured sense of reality, and the unsettling knowledge that if danger ever comes, my dog’s survival strategy involves hiding inside household objects.
That lamp still leans slightly to the left. We don’t talk about it. Milo occasionally stares at it, nostalgic, as if remembering a time when he was more than a dog—when he was light, shelter, and legend.
