Every dog lover needs to read this. After selling our spotless, beloved home, we thought we had left everything behind on a high note… until we got a letter from the new owners accusing our “stinky” dogs of destroying their carpet and demanding $10K in compensation. But my husband and I had a very different plan for them.
My name is Melanie, and until last year, I believed the hardest part of selling a house was saying farewell to the memories. Turns out, the worst part is dealing with entitled buyers who think your life—and your money—should keep serving them even after the deal is done.
Marcus and I had spent three years perfecting our dream smart home in Maple Grove Heights. Every surface shone, every gadget worked seamlessly.
Our two fur babies, Nala and Pepper, were treated like royalty. Weekly spa grooming, organic food, plush beds fancier than most people’s couches—those dogs were living better than half the city.
They weren’t just pets; they were our babies, and that house was their palace.
When we finally decided to downsize because of Marcus’s job relocation, we approached that sale like it was a sacred ceremony. Deep cleaning, professional carpet steaming, air duct sanitization—nothing was spared. I even had the cleaning team come back twice because I wanted perfection.
“You know, Mel,” Marcus said during our final walkthrough, his hand gliding across the kitchen counter, “this place smells like a five-star spa.”
“Better than a spa!” I laughed. “At least Nala and Pepper won’t judge the new owners’ yoga poses.”
We handed over the keys with pride, feeling sure we had left everything just right.
Three weeks later, the universe decided to test our patience by introducing us to what we now call “Vegan Barbie and CrossFit Ken.”
I was sipping my morning latte when the mail arrived. Buried among the bills was a cream envelope with our old address written in swirling, self-important handwriting.
Inside was a letter so ridiculous it almost cracked my coffee mug from sheer shock.
“Dear Former Homeowners,
We have officially moved in… and oh my goodness. The SMELL! Your dogs have ruined the entire energy of this space. The carpet is absolutely disgusting. The odor is so strong that I cannot finish my daily breathwork or achieve proper spiritual flow.
We had to rip out all the carpets right away. The energy was toxic. We did not spend this much money to live in a kennel.
We expect $10,000 in compensation for replacing the carpet and for our deep emotional distress. We are homeowners now—we have standards.
Namaste,
Mrs. Harper
P.S. My husband says it’s ruining his CrossFit recovery schedule.”
I read it once. Then again. Then a third time, as my disbelief grew larger with each word. I immediately called Marcus.
“Babe, you have to see this right now.”
Marcus came into the kitchen, saw my face, and asked, “Did Pepper eat your favorite slippers again?”
“Worse.” I handed him the letter.
His expression shifted from confusion to rage to a dangerous calm that only meant trouble was brewing.
“Ten THOUSAND dollars?” he yelled. “For a smell that doesn’t even exist? From these two clowns?”
“Apparently, our dogs have messed up her aura and his CrossFit recovery.”
“Oh, that’s rich. What do they think we are, their personal customer support hotline?”
I called our real estate agent, Carla, right away. She answered laughing, probably sensing my fury through the phone.
“Carla, the Harpers are demanding $10K because they say the house smells like dogs.”
Carla nearly choked from laughing. “Honey, I was in that house every week for months. The only thing it smelled like was fresh lemon and success. They’re trying to scam you.”
“So what should we do?”
“You tell them to take that demand and shove it. You don’t owe them a dime.”
I hung up and turned to Marcus, ready to write a fiery letter. But he was already at his laptop, fingers flying across the keys with a mischievous glint I hadn’t seen since Pepper stole a Thanksgiving turkey.
“What are you up to?”
Marcus looked up, flashing a wicked grin. “Remember how we never disconnected the smart home app?”
“Oh my God… Marcus, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking it’s time for Vegan Barbie and CrossFit Ken to learn that a smart house comes with smart consequences.”
That night, Marcus began his masterpiece: subtle sabotage.
First, he set the thermostat three degrees warmer at 2 a.m.—just enough to make their comfortable sleep feel like a sweaty Bikram yoga class.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked, half laughing, half worried.
“Mel, they wanted $10K for imaginary dog ghosts. We’re just giving them a new spiritual challenge. Who knows, maybe they’ll finally reach enlightenment through heat exhaustion.”
The next morning, the first call came in.
“This is Mrs. Harper!” she screeched. “Something is terribly wrong with this thermostat. We woke up drenched in sweat! My husband’s headband was soaked! Our bamboo sheets are ruined!”
“Oh, dear,” I replied sweetly. “Maybe your chakras are overheating. Have you tried deep cooling breaths?”
The line went silent.
Night two: Marcus dropped the temperature to near-Arctic levels at 4 a.m., just as they entered their deepest sleep cycle.
The next day, another frantic call.
“Your house tried to freeze us! We woke up shivering! My husband’s joints are frozen; he looked like a broken lawn ornament! He couldn’t even do downward dog this morning!”
“How unusual,” I said. “Perhaps the house is expressing its feelings. Houses can be sensitive to negative energy, you know.”
By the third night, Marcus had truly perfected his art. A sweltering sauna at midnight, an icebox by dawn, and a rainforest-level humidity blast during their afternoon meditation. He was conducting a private symphony of suffering.
Mrs. Harper’s calls became more desperate and chaotic each day.
“This thermostat is possessed! We can’t sleep! My husband can’t even do his CrossFit cooldown properly because he’s already dehydrated! My spiritual alignment is completely shattered!”
“Maybe the house is haunted… by dog spirits,” I suggested, barely containing my giggles.
Two weeks later, Carla called with an update.
“They hired three HVAC technicians. None of them could figure out why the system kept changing. And get this… Mrs. Harper now believes the house is cursed by the ‘ghosts’ of your dogs. She’s been burning sage in every room, and her husband is sleeping in the garage because he thinks it’s safer for his ‘masculine energy flow.’”
Marcus nearly fell off his chair laughing. “Dog ghosts haunting their thermostat? Pepper and Nala would be honored.”
Finally, Carla called again:
“They finally reset the system and kicked you out of the app.”
“Aww,” I sighed. “Just when I was enjoying our daily entertainment.”
“But here’s the best part,” Carla continued. “Mrs. Harper wants to hire a spiritual cleanser to banish pet ghosts and is looking for a masculine energy healer for her husband.”
“Oh no, she didn’t…”
“She absolutely did!”
Six months later, I ran into Mrs. Harper at Whole Foods. She looked like a wilted plant, clutching sage bundles and wearing giant sunglasses indoors.
“Oh… it’s you,” she said, her voice shaky.
“Hello! How’s the house treating you?”
She shivered. “Fine… mostly… but sometimes I still feel… a presence.”
“Well,” I smiled, patting her shoulder, “maybe next time don’t demand $10K for imaginary dog smells. You never know when a furry spirit might come back to check on you.”
She stood there speechless as I walked away, feeling Nala and Pepper would have approved wholeheartedly.
At home, they greeted me like always, tails wagging, eyes sparkling, blissfully unaware of their newfound status as legendary “ghost guardians.”
That night, I looked at Marcus as we watched Nala tear apart a squeaky toy.
“You know what I learned?” I said, grinning. “Never mess with people who treat their dogs like family. And definitely never mess with people who still hold the smart house app.”
Marcus raised his mug. “To Nala, Pepper, and the most poetic revenge ever!”
Sometimes karma needs a little push. And sometimes, that push is a thermostat, a smart app, and two dogs who apparently haunt from beyond. In the end, the good guys—and the good pups—always win.
