When I said “make yourself at home,” I didn’t mean on the stove.
But here we are.
Bruno, my 140-pound St. Bernard, has never really understood the concept of “too big.” He still thinks he’s a lap dog, still tries to squeeze under tables like he’s not built like a small bear. And when it comes to naps? He’s got no shame.
I gave him a giant dog bed. He ignored it. Tried the couch. Too warm. The floor? Apparently beneath him. But the kitchen counter? Perfect, apparently.
One afternoon I came back from grabbing groceries and found him like this—curled up like a cinnamon roll on top of the drawers, tail hanging over the oven, paws tucked neatly next to the dish rack like he belonged there.
I stood in the doorway for a good minute trying to figure out how he even got up there. Still don’t know. Probably never will.
But you know what? After the initial shock wore off, I couldn’t help but laugh. There was my dog, the king of the house, stretched out on the kitchen counter like it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked so comfortable, so at peace, that it almost felt wrong to tell him to get down.
I had to admit it—Bruno had a way of making everything feel a little more chaotic, but also a lot more fun. His charm was in his clumsiness, his sheer obliviousness to the space he occupied. And though he wasn’t a perfect dog—hell, he wasn’t even close—he was my dog. The one who had been with me through thick and thin.
But as time went on, his antics only grew. It started with the kitchen counter, then moved to the couch, then the bed. Eventually, he decided the laundry basket was a good place to curl up. I’d come home to find him perched inside it, surrounded by freshly folded towels. He looked like he was posing for some sort of ad—“The Most Comfortable Laundry Experience You’ll Ever Have.”
Each time I’d catch him, I’d sigh, roll my eyes, and tell him to get down. But the truth was, I secretly loved it. Sure, I had to be a little more diligent about cleaning, especially when it came to cooking and dishes, but his quirky presence made my home feel alive in a way I hadn’t realized it needed.
But then came the real problem. It wasn’t about the kitchen counter anymore, or the laundry baskets, or the couch. It was when Bruno decided to start doing his business in places I definitely didn’t approve of.
The first incident was the bathroom. I woke up one morning to find that Bruno had, somehow, managed to drag himself into the bathroom, and there it was—his unmistakable “gift” right in the middle of the bathroom rug.
The second time, it was the laundry room. And not just on the floor, mind you, but on my freshly cleaned clothes that I’d been so proud of folding earlier in the day.
I could feel my patience start to wear thin. I mean, how do you scold a dog that looks at you with those sad, droopy eyes? He knew what he was doing, but he didn’t care. He was just living his best life, taking advantage of the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, a giant fur-covered king in his own right.
I started getting frustrated, and I didn’t know what to do. I tried everything—training, positive reinforcement, even a crate for when I wasn’t home. But nothing seemed to work. Bruno was persistent. It wasn’t even just about the accidents; it was the fact that he didn’t listen.
One day, after I’d cleaned up yet another mess—this time, in the corner of my living room—I sat on the floor, staring at Bruno as he sat beside me, panting happily as if nothing was wrong. It dawned on me that I was trying to change him, trying to force him to fit into my idea of what a “good dog” should be. But maybe the problem wasn’t with Bruno. Maybe it was with me.
In that moment, I decided to stop fighting it. I stopped trying to force Bruno into my version of what I thought was “normal.” I started accepting him for who he was—the lovable, messy, stubborn dog who would always do things his own way.
I gave him a little more freedom. Instead of scolding him for trying to climb on the counter or curl up in the laundry basket, I started finding the humor in his actions. It was hard, of course. There were days when I was exhausted, frustrated, and wanted to scream at him. But then I would remember that this was part of who he was. And, if I’m being honest, it made our life together so much more interesting.
Then came the twist. A few weeks later, I had a friend over for dinner. We were sitting in the living room, laughing about something when she asked me, “What’s that smell?”
I froze. It was a faint smell, but it was there, lingering in the air. I tried to ignore it, but it was getting worse. I turned to Bruno, who had been happily lounging on the couch, his head resting on a pillow like he owned the place.
“No way,” I thought. “Not again.”
I walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and sure enough—there was the source of the smell. Bruno had gotten into the leftovers from the night before, the chicken and potatoes I’d planned to have for lunch. He’d eaten half of it, leaving only a mess behind.
I turned back to my friend, who was now holding her nose, and laughed. “Well, I guess he’s earned the title of ‘King of the House’ after all.”
But here’s the thing: something in me shifted after that moment. I could have gotten angry again, or frustrated, but I didn’t. Instead, I realized that Bruno had become a part of my life, my routine. His mischievousness was just part of the charm. And, in some strange way, I started to let go of my rigid expectations for myself too.
I didn’t need everything to be perfect anymore. I didn’t need to control everything. If my dog wanted to sleep on the kitchen counter, fine. If he ate my leftovers, fine. Life was too short to get bogged down by the small stuff.
One morning, not long after, I woke up to find Bruno curled up on the kitchen counter again, tail wagging and paws tucked under him like he was the king of the castle. I didn’t scold him. Instead, I smiled.
Later that afternoon, I got a call. My landlord had finally gotten around to reviewing the lease agreement. There had been an error in the contract—they’d mistakenly listed Bruno as a “small pet” on their records, but my landlord was willing to overlook it for a small fee.
It turned out that this small mistake had been a blessing in disguise. The fee was minimal, but the timing was perfect. It allowed me to save a bit of money, which I ended up using for a home renovation project I’d been putting off for months—something that added value to my house.
It was as though life was giving me a little nudge, saying, “Sometimes, you have to embrace the chaos to find the reward.”
Bruno’s presence in my life had become a reminder of something I had forgotten: that not everything needs to be perfect, not every moment needs to be controlled. Sometimes, letting go of expectations opens the door to unexpected blessings.
Life is messy, unpredictable, and full of surprises. But if we embrace it with an open heart, we can find the blessings hidden in the chaos. And maybe, just maybe, letting Bruno sleep wherever he wants was the best decision I’ve ever made.
If you’re reading this and it resonated with you, I’d love if you shared it. Sometimes, we all need a reminder to embrace the messiness of life and let it work its magic.
