The Great Dog Smell Scam: How We Outsmarted the New Homeowners
Every dog lover needs to hear this wild story. My husband and I thought selling our beautiful, spotless home was the end of an era—until the new owners tried to scam us for $10,000, blaming our “stinky” dogs for ruining their carpets. What happened next? Let’s just say… karma got creative.
The Perfect Home—And the Perfect Goodbye
My name is Valerie, and until last year, I thought the hardest part of selling our dream home would be saying goodbye to all the memories. Turns out, the real challenge was dealing with the entitled new owners who thought buying a house came with a lifetime warranty—and a personal ATM.
For three years, my husband Jonathan and I poured our hearts into our smart home in Willowbrook Heights. Every inch of that place was pristine—gleaming floors, fresh paint, and state-of-the-art tech.
And let’s not forget our two furry kings, Muffin and Biscuit. These weren’t just pets; they were our family. They got weekly professional grooming, organic meals, and luxury dog beds that cost more than some people’s couches.
When Jonathan got transferred for work, we decided to downsize. We wanted to leave the house in perfect condition, so we went all out: deep cleaning, carpet steaming, duct sanitizing—you name it.
As we did our final walkthrough, I turned to Jonathan and said, “This place smells like a five-star hotel.”
“Better than a hotel!” he laughed, running his hand over the sparkling countertops. “At least Muffin and Biscuit won’t judge the new owners for their terrible downward dog poses!”
We handed over the keys with pride, thinking we’d closed this chapter gracefully.
Enter: Yoga Barbie and Yoga Ken
Three weeks later, the universe decided to test our patience—and introduce us to the most ridiculous homeowners on the planet.
I was sipping my morning coffee when the mail arrived. Among the bills was a fancy cream-colored envelope with our old address written in loopy, pretentious handwriting. Inside was a letter that made my jaw hit the floor.
“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.
The carpet reeks of dog odor—it’s disgusting. I can’t even meditate without feeling nauseous. Do you understand how this disrupts my spiritual alignment?
We had to rip out all the carpeting immediately. The energy here is toxic. I didn’t pay this much money to live in what feels like a kennel.
We demand $10,000 for carpet replacement and our inconvenience. I’m sure you understand. We’re homeowners now, and we have standards.
Namaste,
Mrs. CampbellP.S. My husband says the smell is ruining his hot yoga recovery time.”
I read it three times. Then I called Jonathan.
“Honey, you need to see this.”
He took one look at my face and joked, “What happened? Did Muffin chew your favorite shoes again?”
“Worse!” I handed him the letter.
His expression went from confusion to disbelief to volcanic rage in three seconds flat.
“TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS?! For a smell that DOESN’T EXIST?!” he exploded. “From YOGA BARBIE AND YOGA KEN?!”
“Apparently, we’ve ruined her spiritual alignment. And his precious ‘hot yoga recovery.’”
I called our realtor, Jennifer, immediately. She answered laughing.
“Jen, the new owners are demanding $10K because they claim the house smells like dogs!”
“Oh, honey,” she cackled, “I was in that house every other day for months. The only thing it smelled like was success and lemon Pledge. They’re trying to scam you.”
“So what do I do?”
“You tell them exactly where they can shove their demand. You don’t owe them a dime.”
Operation: Thermostat Revenge
I marched back to Jonathan, ready to write a furious response—but he was already at his laptop with a devilish grin.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Remember how we never disconnected from the smart home app?”
My eyes widened. “Oh no… what are you planning?”
“I’m thinking Yoga Barbie is about to learn that buying a smart house comes with smart consequences. And maybe Yoga Ken will finally break a real sweat.”
That night, Jonathan became a digital prank master.
Phase 1: Midnight Heatwave
At 2 AM, he cranked the thermostat up just enough to turn their bedroom into a sauna.
“You sure this is a good idea?” I asked.
**”Val, she wants to steal $10K because of imaginary dog smells. I’m just helping her find **true enlightenment… through suffering.”
The next morning, we got our first call.
“This is Mrs. Campbell!” she shrieked. “Your house is BROKEN! It was scorching all night! I woke up drenched! My husband’s man-bun was dripping sweat onto his organic bamboo pillow!”
“Oh no!” I gasped, barely holding back laughter. “Have you tried adjusting your… chakras? I mean, the thermostat?”
“OF COURSE I TRIED! This house is DEFECTIVE!”
“Hmm. Maybe it’s reacting to bad energy.”
Silence. Then a furious hang-up.
Phase 2: Arctic Blast at Dawn
Night two, Jonathan dropped the temperature to freezing at 4 AM—right when they were in deep sleep.
The next call was even better.
“YOUR HOUSE TRIED TO KILL US!” Mrs. Campbell screamed. “We woke up shivering! My husband was so stiff he couldn’t even do child’s pose!”
“How strange!” I mused. “Maybe the house is adjusting to new owners. Have you tried warming up with some sun salutations?”
“This isn’t funny!”
“Neither is demanding $10K for a problem that doesn’t exist.”
Phase 3: Psychological Warfare
For the next two weeks, Jonathan tortured them with random temperature swings—heatwaves at midnight, icy chills at dawn, tropical humidity during meditation time.
Mrs. Campbell called every single day, sounding more unhinged each time.
“The thermostat is POSSESSED!” she wailed on day five. “It changes on its own! I can’t sleep! I can’t meditate! My chakras are RUINED! I think I have yoga PTSD!”
“Have you considered… the house misses Muffin and Biscuit?”
CLICK.
The Legend of the Ghost Dogs
Two weeks in, Jennifer called with an update.
“The Campbells hired THREE HVAC technicians. None of them found anything wrong!”
“Poor Yoga Barbie!” I said, not feeling sorry at all.
“It gets better,” Jennifer laughed. “Mrs. Campbell told her yoga class the house is haunted by DOG SPIRITS. She’s burning sage in every room. And Yoga Ken is now sleeping in the garage because he says the cold is ‘disrupting his masculine energy flow.’”
Jonathan and I lost it.
“Dog spirits?!” he wheezed. “Muffin and Biscuit would LOVE knowing they’re legendary ghosts!”
Eventually, the Campbells reset the system and locked us out—but the damage was done.
The Final Encounter
Six months later, I ran into Mrs. Campbell at the grocery store. She looked exhausted, clutching sage bundles in her cart.
“Oh. It’s you,” she muttered.
“How’s the house?” I asked sweetly.
She shuddered. “Fine… mostly. But sometimes I still feel… a presence.”
I leaned in and whispered, “Maybe next time, don’t demand $10K for imaginary dog smells.”
Her face went white. “What?!”
“Nothing! Just be nice to any future ghost dogs. You never know when they’ll haunt your heating bill.”
I walked away, leaving her pale and clutching her sage like a lifeline.
The Sweet Taste of Karma
That night, I gave Muffin and Biscuit extra treats and told them they were famous supernatural beings. Jonathan raised his coffee mug in a toast.
“To Muffin, Biscuit, and the best revenge a smart home ever delivered!”
Moral of the story? Never mess with dog lovers. And NEVER mess with people who still have control of the thermostat.
Now, dear readers—have you ever dealt with entitled people who thought your money came with a side of servitude? Share your stories. There’s nothing like a good revenge tale to warm the heart… or freeze it, depending on the mood! 😉
