Since I was little, I always wanted a dog. I imagined having a loyal friend who would always wait for me to come home, accompany me on my morning jogs, and look at me with loving eyes as I lounged on the couch.
Then, I adopted Baron.
Baron is a big, handsome, and authoritative Doberman. Physically, he is perfect—his coat is glossy black, his posture is straight, and his gaze is sharp like a war general. The problem is, from the first day he arrived home, I realized that my role here is not as a dog owner. I am more like his personal assistant.
The first day, I opened the door of the house with enthusiasm. “Welcome to your new home, Baron!” I exclaimed.
Baron entered with graceful steps, like a nobleman inspecting his new property. He sniffed the corners of the room, looked at the furniture, then climbed onto the couch and sat there with a satisfied expression. I looked at him, then at the couch, then back at him.
“Hey, that’s my seat,” I said.
He turned to me, yawned, and looked away, as if I were a passing wind.
I sighed. It was only the first day, but I already felt defeated.
In the days that followed, I began to realize that Baron had his own rules about how this house should be run.
The feeding schedule was absolute law
Every morning at six o'clock, Baron would stand by my bed and stare at me silently. If I pretended to be asleep, he would press his cold nose against my face, then exhale deeply. If that wasn't enough, he would climb into bed and deliberately sit on my stomach.
I once tried feeding him late at night, hoping that he would understand that I needed more sleep on the weekends too. My mistake. Baron solved this problem in a very effective way: he picked up his food bowl in his mouth, carried it to my room, and dropped it right on the floor with a KLONTANG! loud enough to wake up the entire housing complex.
From then on, I never dared to be late again.
I used to dream of having a dog that would run with me in harmony, like in a dog food commercial. The reality? I looked more like a kidnapping victim being dragged away by criminals.
Baron was not the easygoing type. He had the speed and strength of a rocket, and I—whose physical abilities were far inferior—could only do my best to hold on. I tried to use a short leash to keep him from running too far, but Baron just looked at me as if to say, “Seriously? Do you think this leash can stop me?”
And sure enough, five minutes later I was practically dragged across the sidewalk, gasping for breath as Baron ran along, enjoying the morning breeze like a hero in an action movie.
The bed was Baron’s prerogative
I bought a big, fluffy dog bed, hoping that Baron would eventually sleep there, not on the couch—or worse, my bed.
He sniffed his new bed, looked at me, then with utter disdain, turned and climbed onto the couch. I sighed and tried to lift him back into his new bed. Baron gave me an “I can’t believe you did this to me” look, then gracefully walked away, as if I had insulted his lineage.
That night, I found Baron sprawled out on my bed. His head was on the pillow, his legs were stretched out, and he was snoring softly. I stood at the door, staring at him in frustration.
“Baron, that’s my bed.”
Baron only opened one eye, yawned widely, then closed it again.
I tried another scenario. “Okay, if you’re not going to move, at least move over a bit.”
Baron raised one of his legs slightly, as if to say, Find your own space, human.
Eventually, I gave in. I grabbed a blanket, walked over to the couch, and laid down on it. A few minutes later, I felt something heavy jump on top of me.
Of course, it was Baron.
He climbed onto the couch and sat on top of me, making sure I didn’t dare move to the bed again. I could only surrender, staring at the ceiling as I thought: How did this dog manage to beat me in every aspect of life?
However, even though living under Baron’s rule wasn’t always easy, I had to admit one thing: he was always there for me.
Every time I came home from work looking tired, Baron would greet me with his tail swinging like a fan. Every time I sat down on the couch after a hard day's work Baron would come up and lean against my legs with his knowing eyes and every night even though he dominated the bed, I would always wake up with his face close to mine, his breathing calm, and his warm body making me feel... comfortable.
So, yeah, maybe I don’t own this house. Maybe I’m just a human being working hard to provide for a doberman who thinks he’s king. But honestly, I don’t mind.
Because for all his authoritarian behavior, the Baron is the best friend I’ve ever had. And even though I’m a lowly staffer in his government, I know I’m his favorite.
And maybe that’s enough.