Dog Lovers, This One’s For You: When Entitled Buyers Met a Smart House—and Lost
My name is Valerie, and until last year, I thought the hardest part about selling a home was leaving behind the memories. But oh, how wrong I was. Turns out, the real nightmare starts after the sale—when your buyers think they purchased your house, your life, and your soul.
My husband Jonathan and I had poured three years of love, effort, and a whole lot of money into building our dream smart home in Willowbrook Heights. Every inch of it sparkled. Every feature was top of the line. You could practically eat off the floors.
And it wasn’t just a home—it was a kingdom ruled by our two beloved dogs, Muffin and Biscuit. These weren’t just pets. These were family. They had their own beds (luxury ones), weekly grooming appointments, and ate better than most humans I know. Muffin even had a closet of tiny sweaters.
So, when Jonathan’s job required a move, we prepped the house with military precision. Professional deep clean, steam-cleaned carpets, ducts sanitized, windows shining like diamonds—I even made the cleaner come back twice. I wanted perfection.
“You know, Jon,” I said during our final walkthrough, breathing in the fresh scent of lavender and lemon polish, “this place smells like a high-end spa.”
“Better than a spa,” he grinned, sliding his hand across the marble counter. “At least Muffin and Biscuit won’t judge the new owners’ downward dog form!”
We laughed, handed over the keys with full hearts, and drove away with peace in our souls. It felt like the end of a beautiful chapter.
But three weeks later, that peace shattered like a dropped wine glass.
I was sipping my morning coffee when I spotted a thick cream envelope in the mail. The handwriting was… let’s just say, flamboyant. My stomach dropped before I even opened it.
Inside was a letter from the new owners. And not just any letter. This one could’ve won an Oscar for Most Dramatic Performance in a Homeowner Complaint.
“Dear Previous Owners,
I hope this finds you well, though I’m certainly not. We’ve moved in and… wow. I smell your stinky dogs!!! Total vibe killer. The carpet is unacceptable. I cannot meditate without gagging. This is ruining my spiritual alignment!We’ve ripped out all the carpets. We expect $10,000 in compensation for this toxic energy and inconvenience.
Namaste,
Mrs. CampbellP.S. My husband says the smell is affecting his hot yoga recovery time.”
I read it once. Then twice. Then a third time, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Then I called Jonathan.
“Honey, you have to see this.”
He came into the kitchen, saw my face, and raised an eyebrow. “Did Muffin chew up your planner again?”
“Worse,” I said, handing him the letter.
His eyes darted back and forth as he read. His jaw dropped. Then his whole body stiffened like a dog who just heard the word bath.
“Ten. Thousand. Dollars? For a fake dog smell??” he bellowed. “Are these people serious?”
“She says we’ve ruined her chakras.”
“And his hot yoga recovery time?” Jonathan practically growled. “Who are these people?!”
“Yoga Barbie and Yoga Ken,” I said dryly.
We called our realtor, Jennifer, right away.
“Oh no,” she said, choking on laughter. “Valerie, I walked through that house twenty times. It smelled like a cleaning commercial. They’re trying to scam you.”
“So what do we do?”
“You tell them to go meditate on a rock. You don’t owe them a dime.”
But Jonathan wasn’t done. No, he was just getting started.
He opened his laptop and got that look. The same look he had when Muffin got sick and the vet clinic was about to close. Determined. Intense. Slightly unhinged.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
His eyes twinkled.
“Remember how we never disconnected the smart home app?”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” he said, grinning. “Let’s see how aligned her chakras are after a week of midnight heatwaves.”
That night, the thermostat suddenly rose by three degrees at 2 a.m. Just enough to make them sweat. Nothing crazy… yet.
The next morning, our phone rang.
“This is Mrs. Campbell,” she snapped. “It was boiling in here last night! My husband woke up looking like he just finished a Bikram marathon. His man-bun was dripping!”
“Oh no,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Have you tried adjusting your… chakras—I mean, settings?”
“I did everything! This house is obviously defective!”
“Hmm, maybe the house is just reacting to your energy,” I said sweetly. “Try a cooling breath technique?”
Click.
Night two: Arctic blast. Jonathan dropped the temp to 60°F at 4 a.m.
Morning call: “We woke up frozen! My husband couldn’t even do child’s pose! He looked like a yoga snowman!”
“Well,” I said, “maybe try some warming sun salutations?”
Click.
And so the thermal warfare began.
Heat wave. Cold snap. Tropical sauna. Repeat.
Jonathan controlled that house like a symphony conductor. Every cycle was timed for maximum discomfort. And Yoga Barbie and Yoga Ken? They were the front row audience.
“They think they can accuse Muffin and Biscuit of stinking up a house we steam-cleaned twice?” he said one night, setting the humidity to 85% for their meditation hour. “Let them meditate through that.”
Every day, Mrs. Campbell called, her voice shriller, her tone less “namaste” and more “nuclear.”
“The thermostat is possessed! We can’t sleep! I can’t meditate! My chakras are scrambled!”
“Have you considered,” I said once, “that maybe the house misses Muffin and Biscuit?”
She hung up.
Two weeks in, Jennifer called laughing so hard she could barely speak.
“You will not believe this,” she said. “They’ve had three HVAC techs over. No one can figure out the problem. Mrs. Campbell told her yoga teacher the house is cursed by dog spirits!”
I choked on my tea.
“She’s been burning sage in every room. Her husband’s been sleeping in the garage because he thinks the cold air is targeting his… masculine energy.”
Jonathan was howling.
“My dogs are legendary now!” he gasped. “They’re not pets—they’re haunting legends! Yoga Ken is being spiritually bullied by two poodles!”
Three weeks later, the calls stopped. Jennifer rang again.
“They figured out how to reset the system. You’re locked out now.”
“Aww,” I pouted. “Just when I was starting to enjoy the daily drama.”
“But wait,” she added, “she asked if I knew a pet medium. And someone who does… ‘masculine energy restoration.’”
“You’re kidding.”
“She’s convinced the house is haunted by Muffin and Biscuit.”
We celebrated with steak and extra treats for the dogs. Muffin wagged happily, oblivious to her ghostly reputation. Biscuit rolled in the grass, clearly proud of herself.
Six months later, I bumped into Mrs. Campbell at the store. Her hair was frizzy, her eyes tired. She clutched a stack of sage bundles like holy relics.
“Oh,” she muttered when she saw me. “You.”
“Mrs. Campbell,” I smiled. “How’s the house?”
She shuddered. “Fine. Though… sometimes I still feel… a presence.”
I patted her arm. “Well, maybe next time don’t accuse someone’s dogs of stinking up a perfectly clean house.”
She froze. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said cheerfully. “But if I were you, I’d be very kind to any four-legged spirits. Especially the ones with long memories… and access to smart thermostats.”
I left her standing there, hugging her sage like a life raft.
Back home, Muffin and Biscuit met me at the door with wagging tails and happy barks. I gave them kisses and whispered, “You two are legends.”
That night, as Jonathan and I watched them rip apart another squeaky toy, I smiled.
“You know what I learned?” I said.
“What?”
“Never mess with people who love their pets more than money. And never forget to disconnect the smart home app.”
Jonathan raised his coffee mug. “To Muffin, Biscuit, and the most poetic revenge ever.”
Sometimes karma needs a little push. Sometimes, that push comes with an app and two very good dogs.
Now tell me—have you ever had to deal with someone entitled who forgot that kindness goes both ways? Let’s hear your revenge stories. The ghost dogs would approve.
