When my mother-in-law, Susan, moved in for a month while her house was being fixed, I braced myself for some challenges. I didn’t expect her tiny dog, Rusty, to become my biggest headache. Every night, he howled and scratched outside my bedroom door, keeping me awake. When I asked Susan to do something about it, she smirked and said, “That’s your issue, not his.” So, I decided it was time to make it her issue, too, with a clever plan that changed everything.
I adore dogs, but Rusty was a nervous little thing, always growling at shadows or furniture like they were out to get him. Susan called him her “emotional support dog,” though she had no paperwork to back it up. When she and her husband, Frank, arrived, I welcomed them warmly, serving dinner while Rusty patrolled my house like a tiny guard. Susan cooed over him, saying he was just adjusting. I smiled and let it go, hoping things would settle.
I work night shifts at the hospital, so sleep is precious. That first night, I came home exhausted, only to be greeted by Rusty’s growls. I hushed him and collapsed into bed, but at midnight, he started barking and howling outside my door like a creature possessed. The noise was relentless—barks, whines, scratches—like he was staging a one-dog riot. My husband slept through it, but I was wide awake, counting down to my next shift.
The second night was worse. Rusty added whimpers and thuds, like he was hurling himself at the door. By morning, I was a wreck. Over coffee, I asked Susan if she could keep Rusty in her room at night. She brushed me off, saying he was just protecting her and I shouldn’t work such late hours. When I explained I was barely sleeping, she laughed and said, “That’s your problem.” Her smug tone lit a fire in me. I wasn’t going to let this slide.
On the third night, as Rusty’s howls filled the house, I grabbed my phone and recorded every sound—every bark, scratch, and wail. The next morning, while Susan and Rusty slept, I set my Bluetooth speaker against their bedroom wall and played the recording at full volume. Then I slipped out for coffee. When I returned, Susan was fuming. She stormed into the kitchen, demanding to know why I’d played “that awful noise.” I smiled sweetly and said I wanted her to hear how hard Rusty was working to protect us.
Susan was speechless, her face turning red. She muttered that they’d figure something out. That night, the house was blissfully quiet. The next morning, I woke up refreshed to find Susan packing. She claimed Frank’s sister wanted them to stay with her instead. I waved them off with a smile, savoring the silence. Later, I heard Rusty was in training for his “nighttime anxiety.” Now, when they visit, he’s a perfect guest. Sometimes, sharing the problem is the best way to fix it.
