They say dogs are man’s best friend—but mine clearly missed the memo. My dog, Bruno, doesn’t just live with me; he runs the house.

It all started when we brought him home as a tiny, harmless-looking puppy. Fast forward one year, and Bruno now believes he’s the landlord. He barks when someone’s at the gate (normal), but also when the fan is too loud, when I sneeze, or when a leaf moves outside. Rent? He doesn’t pay it. But rules? Oh, he enforces them.

You can’t sit on “his” chair unless he approves. He watches me eat with the eyes of a seasoned beggar—and if I dare not share, he sighs loudly like a disappointed parent. The worst? He once dragged my shoe under the bed and stared at me like I was the thief when I tried to get it back.

Bath time is an Olympic sport. I chase him with a bucket, he dodges like Messi, and somehow I’m the one soaked. Yet, every night, he curls up beside me, looks up with those innocent eyes, and suddenly I forget that he chewed my charger earlier.

Living with Bruno is chaotic, loud, and often ridiculous—but I wouldn’t trade him for anything. Well… maybe just for a week of quiet.