Roommate Horror Stories: The Pet Was Cute Till it Became the Monster in the Apartment

When Tom, a nurse, mentioned his dog, Chewie, during our lease signing in Seattle, I was thrilled. I love dogs, and I pictured cozy evenings with a pup curled up beside me in our rainy neighbourhood. But Chewie, a 70-pound rescue with soulful eyes and a nervous drool, was not the cuddly companion I’d imagined. Tom’s long hospital shifts left Chewie alone, and the dog’s howls pierced the apartment like a siren, a mournful wail that rattled my nerves. Working from home, I struggled through Zoom calls, my clients raising eyebrows as Chewie’s cries drowned out my voice. “What’s that noise?” they’d ask, and I’d mumble excuses about construction or sirens, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Then Chewie’s anxiety turned destructive. He chewed my MacBook charger, leaving frayed wires sparking on the floor. He gnawed the edge of my coffee table; splinters scattered like confetti. One day, he slipped into my room and shredded my favourite sneakers, the laces a mangled mess. I loved Chewie, his big eyes pleading for understanding, but my patience was fraying. I confronted Tom after finding my sneakers ruined. “Can we crate train or get help? I adore Chewie, but this is tough,” I said, gesturing to the wreckage. Tom sighed, his scrubs still on. “She gets nervous when confined, rescue trauma,” he explained. I empathized, having once owned a shy mutt, but my belongings were taking the hit.

We tried solutions: a dog walker, puzzle toys, and calming treats. But Chewie still tore up a rug, its threads strewn across the living room like a crime scene. The final straw came when I nearly slipped in a lake of pee in the hallway, the acrid smell hitting me like a punch. I cornered Tom that night. “You have to fix this, or I’m gone,” I said, my voice shaking with frustration. He promised to try harder, but his shifts left little time for training, and Chewie’s chaos continued. My work suffered, my home felt like a kennel, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I found a new apartment, a quiet one-bedroom where my chargers and rugs were safe. Packing was bittersweet; I hugged Chewie goodbye, his wet nose pressed against my hand, but I couldn’t stay in that whirlwind.

I moved out, leaving Tom to manage Chewie alone. My new place was silent, the floors unmarred, and my Zoom calls uninterrupted. I missed Chewie’s soulful eyes, but not the destruction or the howling that haunted my days. The peace of my new home was worth it, a reminder that love for a pet doesn’t mean enduring chaos.