We thought selling our spotless home would be the last stressful thing we’d go through… until the new homeowners sent us an outrageous demand. They claimed our beloved dogs left the house smelling so badly that they wanted $10,000 in compensation. But my husband Jonathan and I weren’t going to let that slide.
My name is Valerie, and until recently, I truly believed we’d left everything about that sale in the past. We’d built our ideal smart home in Willowbrook Heights over three years—every inch cleaned, every system tuned, every detail perfect. Our two dogs, Muffin and Biscuit, weren’t just pets—they were part of the family, groomed professionally weekly and treated like royalty.
After a major job move, we decided to downsize. We had professional deep cleaning, carpet steaming, duct sanitization—we left nothing to chance. We even had the cleaners return twice to make sure the place was immaculate. When we handed over the keys, we were proud. We felt like we’d truly nailed it.
Three weeks later, the nightmare began.
One morning, I opened the mail and found a handwritten letter from the new owners—whom we later nicknamed Yoga Barbie and Yoga Ken. In it, Mrs. Campbell complained about the carpet smelling like dog odor, how it “ruined her meditation,” and demanded $10,000 for replacement and inconvenience because the scent was “overwhelming” her spiritual alignment and even affecting her husband’s hot yoga recovery.
I could hardly believe it. I called Jonathan, who read the letter and pretty much exploded—silent volcanic eruption style. Ten thousand dollars over imaginary dog smell?? Our realtor, Jennifer, laughed and told us not to pay a cent. She’d walked through that house weekly and smelled nothing but fresh lemon.
But instead of just ignoring them, Jonathan had a petty idea brewing. We hadn’t disconnected our smart home system, and he decided to use it for a little “teaching moment.” That night, he turned the thermostat up three degrees at 2 a.m.—not dangerous, just uncomfortable enough to make Yoga Barbie and Yoga Ken sweat it out like a hot yoga class in July.
The next morning, we couldn’t help but laugh when Mrs. Campbell called, complaining the house was scorching hot, and her husband’s “organic bamboo pillow” was soaked with sweat. The smart house fun had just begun.
Night two, Jonathan flipped the heat to arctic levels at 4 a.m.—just in time for deep sleep. Another frantic call. They thought the house was trying to freeze them to death. We played innocent, suggesting maybe houses have emotions, too.
By the third night, Jonathan was mixing heat waves, polar blasts, and tropical saunas, dialing in discomfort just right. Mrs. Campbell believed the house was possessed, so she burned sage and did cleansing rituals—convinced our pets’ spirits haunted every room. Her husband even chose to sleep in the garage, blaming his “energy flow.”
Three weeks later, they finally reset the system and couldn’t control the settings anymore. Victory.
By chance, I ran into Mrs. Campbell at the grocery store months later. She looked frazzled and was buying sage bundles. I simply smiled, told her maybe next time she’d think twice about demanding money for an imaginary problem, and walked away.
Back home, Muffin and Biscuit greeted me like heroes. I told them their “ghost dog legend” was now part of neighborhood lore. And what did I learn through all this?
Never mess with people who love their pets more than money… and always keep your smart home connected for pettiness when necessary.
