When My MIL Laughed About Her Dog Howling All Night, I Made Sure She Heard Every Second of It
When my mother-in-law Linda moved in with us for a month, I thought the hardest part would be sharing a house with her. I had no idea the real nightmare would be her tiny mixed-breed dog, Max — who, every single night, turned into a howling banshee right outside my bedroom door.
The worst part? When I asked Linda for help, she laughed and said, “Sounds like your problem, not his.”
Oh, really? That’s when I decided — if it was my problem, I was going to make it her problem too.
I knew living with my in-laws while their house was being renovated would be a challenge. Linda can be a bit much on a good day, but I never expected her little dog to be the thing that pushed me to the edge.
Now, I love dogs — I’ve had them my whole life. But Max? He was one of those high-strung, yappy little dogs who thinks every human being is secretly trying to murder his owner. And Linda? She doted on him like he was her firstborn.
She kept calling him her emotional support dog, even though she didn’t have any paperwork, diagnosis, or reason to need one. But try telling her that.
They arrived on a Sunday. My husband showed them to the guest room while I tried to make polite small talk and serve up some dinner.
Meanwhile, Max strutted around the house like he owned the place. Every few minutes, he’d let out a low growl — at the coffee table, a lamp, a beam of light, or maybe the mere presence of oxygen.
“Oh, he’s just getting used to the environment,” Linda said sweetly as she scratched behind his ears. “Aren’t you, my precious boy? You’re such a good little protector!”
I forced a smile and kept eating.
After dinner, I packed my things for another exhausting night shift at the hospital.
Linda watched me toss a pack of Goldfish crackers into my bag and raised an eyebrow.
“You really shouldn’t be working such odd hours,” she said with a slight frown.
“It’s part of the job,” I replied. “People needing emergency surgery don’t usually wait until morning.”
She gave a little “hmmf” and set Max’s dinner down, clearly unimpressed.
I left, shaking it off.
Hours later, I returned home completely drained. Max growled as I came in, but quieted when I whispered, “Hush.”
I climbed into bed beside my husband, hoping for a few hours of sleep.
It felt like I had just closed my eyes when—
WOOF! WOOF! WOOOOO!
I shot up in bed, my heart racing. Max was just outside our bedroom door, howling like he was auditioning for a horror movie.
He scratched at the door like he was trying to dig a tunnel. His barking echoed through the hallway like some demon beast had taken over his little five-pound body.
I looked over at my husband.
He was sound asleep. Of course.
The noise went on and on, for a full hour. Every time Max paused, I thought, Thank God, but nope — he’d just catch his breath and start again. Howling. Barking. Scratching.
At 2:17 a.m., I crept to the door and put my ear against it. Through the wood, I heard Linda’s sleepy voice calling out, “Max, honey, come back to bed.”
Great. She knew he was out there, and yet… nothing. If anything, her voice made him louder.
At last, around 3 a.m., he stopped. I collapsed into bed, beyond exhausted.
But guess what? My alarm was set to go off in just three hours. And I had another full shift waiting for me.
Have you ever tried to do your job — in an ER — with only three hours of sleep and a dog-induced migraine? Let’s just say, it wasn’t my finest performance.
But the next night? Oh, it got worse.
Max began his concert again, right on cue — midnight.
This time, he added dramatic whimpering and even body-slamming the door like he was trying to break in.
I lay there, stunned, thinking, Is this dog possessed?
The next morning, I shuffled into the kitchen, half-dead. My hair looked like it’d survived a tornado.
Linda was standing there in her robe, humming cheerfully over her coffee.
“Good morning, sweetheart!” she said with a bright smile. “You look tired.”
Tired? I looked like a zombie. And she knew exactly why.
I grabbed some coffee and tried to keep my voice calm.
“Linda, I was wondering… could you maybe bring Max into your room at night? He’s been really active in the hallway.”
She blinked like I’d said something shocking. “Active? What do you mean?”
“The barking. All night. Right outside our door.”
Her face changed instantly. “Oh that. Well, maybe you shouldn’t be coming home so late. Max isn’t used to people creeping in at night. He’s just trying to protect his family. You should be grateful he’s so alert.”
Grateful?
I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “I’m grateful for a lot of things, Linda. Just not for the three hours of sleep I’m not getting.”
She laughed. Laughed. Like I had just told her the best joke ever.
“Well,” she smirked, “that sounds like your problem, not his.”
And there it was — the moment she lit the match.
Challenge accepted.
That night, as Max began his third-night performance of Howl: The Musical, I reached for my phone.
I hit record.
For hours, I captured every bark, whimper, scratch, and guttural growl in crystal-clear audio.
But I wasn’t done.
At 6:30 a.m. — right when Linda and Max were finally settling into peaceful sleep — I placed my Bluetooth speaker against the wall we shared… and hit play.
Max’s chaos filled their room. Full volume. Pure surround sound.
And me? I went out to grab a lovely cup of coffee.
When I got back around 9:30 a.m., the house was silent. Their door was closed, and I could hear whispers. Heated, urgent whispers. I smiled and tiptoed past.
That evening, I walked in and barely had time to take off my shoes when Linda stormed into the kitchen.
“ARE YOU INSANE?” she yelled. “You seriously played that horrible noise while we were trying to sleep?!”
I smiled sweetly. “What horrible noise? I was playing Max’s beautiful serenade! I figured you’d want to hear how ‘alert’ he is.”
Her mouth dropped open. “That’s not— That’s totally different!”
“Is it?” I tilted my head like I was confused. “You don’t like the sound of your precious boy protecting the family?”
Linda’s face turned red. Bright, flaming red.
“This is RIDICULOUS,” she snapped. “I’m starting to think you actually want us to leave.”
I blinked innocently. “Leave? No, no, Linda. I thought Max was howling every night because he missed me. It was… touching.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Failed.
Then she hissed, “Fine. We’ll… we’ll figure something out.”
And that night?
Silence. Not a single bark.
The next morning, I woke up naturally — no alarm, no chaos, no dog scratching at the door.
Just peace. And the faint sound of… suitcases?
I peeked into the guest room.
Linda was angrily stuffing clothes into her bag. Gerald was folding everything like a soldier packing for deployment.
“Leaving already?” I asked.
Linda didn’t look at me. “Change of plans. Gerald’s sister begged us to come stay with her. She adores Max. And she’s closer.”
“Oh,” I said with a big smile. “Well, it was wonderful having you. Such an… educational experience.”
Twenty minutes later, I stood in the driveway, waving as they drove off. The silence that followed was heavenly.
Two weeks later, my sister-in-law casually mentioned something over lunch.
“Did you hear Linda put Max in some kind of nighttime training program? He was apparently disturbing the whole house.”
Interesting. Max never had another nighttime meltdown. Not once. In fact, during future visits, he was a perfect gentleman.
Sometimes, you don’t need to argue.
You just need to let people experience exactly what you’re dealing with.
And believe me — after three nights of Max’s greatest hits, Linda got the message loud and clear.