My mother-in-law moved in for a month, and I never expected her tiny dog to become my biggest nightmare. Every night, he barked outside my bedroom door like a broken alarm clock. When I asked her to do something, she laughed and said, “Sounds like your problem, not his.”
Really? Fine. I decided to make it her problem too.
When Roland and Marlene came to stay while their house was being repaired, I thought the hardest part would be simply living with my mother-in-law. I was wrong. It was her yappy little Rusty.
Now, I actually love dogs. But Rusty wasn’t just small—he was the kind of purse-sized dog who thought everything was a threat: chairs, shadows, even me. Marlene insisted he was her “emotional support dog,” though she had no paperwork, no diagnosis, and frankly no evidence of support.
That first night, he prowled around like he owned the place. He growled at the furniture, then turned his beady eyes on me as though I was an intruder. Marlene scratched behind his ears and cooed, “He’s just adjusting. My brave little guard!”
I smiled tightly. Brave? Please.
That night, I returned home after a late hospital shift, exhausted. My husband was snoring peacefully when I slipped into bed—until it started.
WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!
Rusty’s midnight concert rattled the walls. He barked, whined, scratched at the door like he was trying to claw his way out of a fire. I lay there, heart pounding, staring at the ceiling, wondering how such a tiny body could produce the sound of a wolf pack.
At one point, Marlene’s voice drifted through the hallway: “Rusty, darling, come back to bed.”
Instead of calming him, it fired him up like an encore request. At 3 a.m., he finally collapsed. My alarm went off three hours later.
Day one: wrecked.
Night two? Worse. He added scratching, moaning, even body-slamming the door like a furry battering ram.
By morning, I looked like an extra in a zombie apocalypse.
Marlene sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. “Morning, dear! You look tired.”
Tired? No clue, apparently.
I carefully asked, “Marlene, could Rusty sleep in your room? He’s been really loud.”
She blinked innocently. “Loud? You mean protective. He just doesn’t like your late-night schedule. You should be grateful.”
Grateful. For insomnia.
Then she laughed. Actually laughed. “That’s your problem, not his.”
That was it.
On night three, when Rusty launched into his usual performance, I grabbed my phone and hit record. I captured every bark, growl, whimper, and claw.
At dawn, when Marlene and Rusty finally passed out, I set my Bluetooth speaker against the shared wall. At full volume, I replayed Rusty’s “greatest hits.”
Then I grabbed my keys and went out for coffee.
By the time I returned, the house was silent—except for the muffled sound of Marlene and Roland arguing.
That evening, Marlene stormed into the kitchen, fuming. “ARE YOU CRAZY? You blasted horrible noise while we were sleeping!”
I set down my purse and smiled sweetly. “Noise? Oh, I just played Rusty’s nightly concert. Since you said he was protecting us, I thought you’d want to hear it.”
Her jaw dropped. “That’s completely different!”
“Is it? You don’t like hearing him ‘defend’ us?”
For once, she had no words. Just red cheeks and clenched teeth.
“Fine,” she muttered. “We’ll fix it.”
That night, silence. Glorious silence.
The next morning, I woke to sunlight and the sound of suitcases being zipped. Roland was calmly packing while Marlene shoved clothes into her bags
“Leaving already?” I asked, all innocence.
“Plans changed,” she snapped. “We’ll stay with Roland’s sister. She adores Rusty.”
I smiled. “It was lovely having you. Truly eye-opening.”
Twenty minutes later, I waved them off. The house was peaceful again, like the storm had passed.
Two weeks later, my sister-in-law mentioned that Marlene had finally enrolled Rusty in training classes. Apparently, his “nighttime nerves” had bothered everyone.
And just like that, Rusty became the perfect guest—calm, quiet, no more midnight meltdowns.
Sometimes, the best solution is to let everyone else experience the problem for themselves.