Beware: The Smart House Has a Memory—And So Do Its Dogs
Every dog lover out there needs to read this. You think the worst part of selling your home is packing up the memories and moving on? Think again.
I’m Valerie, and until last year, I thought letting go of our beautiful home would be the hardest part. It was the house we built with love. The place where we raised our two adorable fur babies, Muffin and Biscuit. Everything was spotless, everything was perfect. We walked away proud.
Then, out of nowhere, a letter arrived.
And suddenly, we weren’t just former homeowners anymore. We were villains in a ridiculous drama—accused of “dog stench” and asked to pay $10,000 for new carpet.
Yeah. You read that right.
Let me start from the beginning.
Jonathan, my husband, and I spent three years turning our home in Willowbrook Heights into a dream come true. Smart lights, high-efficiency everything, top-of-the-line finishes. We poured our hearts—and a small fortune—into it. Muffin and Biscuit had their own little dog beds, weekly grooming appointments, and even their own drawers full of treats. That house wasn’t just our home—it was their castle.
So when we had to move because of Jonathan’s job transfer, we made sure everything was absolutely perfect for the buyers.
We deep cleaned, steamed the carpets, sanitized the ducts, even had our cleaning lady come back twice just to make sure not a single dog hair was left behind.
During our final walkthrough, I turned to Jonathan and said, “You know, this place smells like a spa.”
“Better than a spa,” he joked, running a hand over the shiny countertop. “At least Muffin and Biscuit don’t judge your yoga form.”
We laughed, hugged, and handed over the keys, ready to start a new chapter.
But just three weeks later, that peaceful goodbye turned into chaos.
I was sipping my coffee when I saw a fancy envelope with our old address on it. The handwriting was curly and dramatic, like someone had taken a calligraphy class for the sole purpose of writing passive-aggressive letters.
I opened it, read the first few lines, and nearly dropped my mug.
**“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!!! This is not the energy I envisioned. Total vibe killer. And I have to express my complete disappointment. The carpet situation is absolutely unacceptable. The dog odor is overwhelming. I literally cannot complete my morning meditation practice without feeling nauseous. Do you understand how this disrupts my spiritual alignment?
We’ve had to rip out all the carpeting immediately. The energy in this space was completely toxic. I didn’t spend this much money to live in what feels like a kennel.
We expect $10,000 in compensation for the carpet replacement & our inconvenience. I’m sure you understand. We’re homeowners now and we have standards.
Namaste,
Mrs. Campbell
P.S. – My husband says the smell is affecting his hot yoga recovery time.”**
I read it three times. Then I called Jonathan.
“Honey, you need to see this.”
He walked in, looked at my face, and said, “What happened? Did Muffin chew your shoes again?”
“Worse,” I said, handing him the letter.
His expression went from confusion to rage in seconds. “TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS? For a smell that doesn’t exist? Who even are these people?”
“Apparently, we’ve messed up her spiritual alignment. And her husband’s hot yoga routine.”
Jonathan stared at me like he was about to combust. “Do they think buying a house includes a lifetime of customer service?”
I called our realtor, Jennifer, right away.
“Jen, we’ve got a situation,” I said. “The Campbells are demanding ten grand because the house apparently smells like dogs.”
“Oh honey,” she laughed, “I was in that house more than I was in my own for two months. The only thing it smelled like was lemon Pledge and good decisions. They’re trying to shake you down.”
“So what do I do?”
“You tell them to take that demand and stuff it in a scented candle. You don’t owe them a dime.”
After we hung up, I found Jonathan at his laptop with a sly look on his face.
“What are you doing?”
He grinned. “Remember how we never disconnected from the smart home app?”
“Jon, no.”
“Oh yes,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Yoga Barbie and Yoga Ken are about to meet the power of a smart home with a grudge.”
That night, he changed the thermostat settings. Just a little. Just enough.
At 2 a.m., the heat kicked up by 3 degrees. Nothing major—just enough to make their night feel like sleeping in a hot yoga studio.
The next morning, the phone rang.
“This is Mrs. Campbell,” she shrieked. “The thermostat went crazy last night! It was like we were sleeping in a volcano! My husband’s man-bun was literally dripping sweat onto his bamboo pillow!”
“Oh no,” I said sweetly. “Have you tried… cooling breath techniques?”
She hung up.
The next night? Arctic blast at 4 a.m. They woke up frozen solid.
Day two’s call was even better.
“YOUR HOUSE TRIED TO FREEZE US TO DEATH!” she yelled. “My husband was so stiff he looked like a yoga statue!”
“Maybe the house is just adjusting to your… energy,” I said. “Have you tried burning sage?”
Click.
Jonathan got better every day. A tropical sauna at 1 p.m. when she was meditating. A deep chill at 5 a.m. Heat at dinner. Cold at midnight. It was like conducting a symphony—except every note was misery.
By day five, she was on the phone again.
“The thermostat is haunted!” she cried. “I can’t meditate, I can’t sleep, my chakras are totally ruined! I think I’m developing yoga PTSD!”
“Maybe the house misses Muffin and Biscuit,” I said gently.
Click.
Two weeks in, Jennifer called.
“Guess what? They hired three different HVAC guys. No one can figure out what’s happening.”
“Poor things,” I said with zero sympathy.
Jennifer giggled. “Oh, and Mrs. Campbell told her yoga teacher the house is haunted by dog spirits. She’s burning sage in every room, and her husband’s sleeping in the garage to protect his… masculine energy.”
Jonathan and I fell on the floor laughing.
“Dog spirits!” he said. “Muffin and Biscuit would love that. They always thought they were magic.”
Three weeks later, it ended.
“Bad news,” Jennifer said, “They figured out how to reset the system. You’re locked out.”
“Aww,” I said. “Just when it was getting fun.”
“But wait! She asked me if I knew any specialists in pet hauntings and masculine energy restoration. She’s convinced their thermostat was cursed by dog ghosts.”
“I can’t,” I said, wiping tears of laughter from my face. “I cannot!”
Six months later, I ran into Mrs. Campbell at the store. She looked tired and miserable, clutching a bundle of sage like it was her last hope.
“Oh,” she said, eyes wide. “It’s you.”
“Hi there. How’s the house treating you?”
She shivered. “Fine. Mostly. Sometimes… I still feel something.”
I leaned in with a smile. “Maybe next time, don’t ask for $10,000 over imaginary dog smells.”
Her face went white. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said, and walked off.
At home, Muffin and Biscuit greeted me with wagging tails. I gave them extra treats and told them they were now officially legendary ghost dogs.
That night, I told Jonathan, “You know what I learned? Never mess with people who love their pets more than anything.”
He raised his mug. “To Muffin, Biscuit, and the greatest revenge ever.”
Sometimes karma needs a little nudge. And sometimes that nudge comes from a smart home app… and a very annoyed dog mom and dad.
Now tell me—have you ever had to deal with people like the Campbells? Because if you have… trust me. You’re not alone.
