My Dog’s Evil Plot to Embarrass Me

I have always believed that dogs are loyal, loving, and innocent creatures who exist purely to bring joy to their humans. That was before I got Max. Max is a golden retriever with the face of an angel and the mind of a criminal mastermind. Behind those big, brown, “love me” eyes hides a schemer who lives solely to arrass me in the most public, humiliating ways possible.

When I first brought him home, I thought he was perfect. He would curl up beside me while I worked, wag his tail when I returned from the grocery store, and give me that soft “I’m so glad you’re home” look. I told all my friends, “Max is the best dog in the world. He’s pure goodness.” Oh, how wrong I was. Max was simply biding his time, studying me like a villain in the first act of a movie, preparing to strike.

The first hint came at the park one sunny Saturday. I was enjoying a peaceful morning walk when Max spotted a jogger. Now, Max loves people—too much. He bolted toward the man, yanking me like I was a kite on a windy day. I tried to hold on, but my coffee cup flew into the air like a caffeinated firework, showering a poor lady with soy latte foam. Max reached the jogger, not to bite or bark, but to stick his nose directly into the man’s shorts pocket. Why? I’ll never know. But I do know that the jogger screamed, tripped, and looked at me like I was training a canine pickpocket.

After that, it became clear Max enjoyed creating situations where I was the bad guy. He started small—stealing socks from my laundry and proudly displaying them to visitors like trophies. Once, he dragged my underwear into the living room while I was hosting my boss for tea. I tried to laugh it off, but it’s hard to be taken seriously in a professional setting when your dog is parading your polka-dot boxers around like a victory flag.

Then came the grocery store incident. Our local shop allows well-behaved dogs on leashes. Max, of course, pretended to be a model citizen until the exact moment we entered the produce section. Suddenly, he lunged toward a pyramid of apples like a four-legged bowling ball. The entire display collapsed, and Max somehow managed to grab one apple in his mouth while the rest rolled dramatically down the aisle. As I scrambled to collect them, Max sat calmly chewing his stolen fruit, watching me sweat like he was enjoying a Netflix comedy special titled “The Fool Who Owns Me.”

I wish I could say I learned to control him, but Max seemed to study my patterns and predict the worst possible time to act up. Take the neighborhood barbecue, for example. I was chatting with Mrs. Henderson, our elderly neighbor, when Max suddenly decided my plate of food was his. Without warning, he leapt up, grabbed a hot dog in his teeth, and trotted away like a thief in the night. The problem? The hot dog was still attached to the bun… which was still in my hand. Picture me being yanked forward by my lunch while Mrs. Henderson gasped in horror. Max didn’t even eat it—he just dropped it under the picnic table, wagged his tail, and walked away, mission accomplished.

But the crown jewel of Max’s humiliation campaign came one afternoon when I decided to take him for a jog. I was wearing my new athletic shorts, the kind with the loose waistband. We were halfway down the block when Max spotted a squirrel. You would think the squirrel was carrying a suitcase of gold, the way Max lunged after it. The leash wrapped around my waist, yanked forward, and—how do I put this delicately—my shorts decided they’d had enough of the situation. Down they went, in broad daylight, in front of at least three people I recognized from the neighborhood. Max, of course, didn’t notice. He was still locked in mortal combat with the squirrel’s memory. I pulled my shorts up with all the dignity of a man who knows he’s the star of someone’s dinner conversation that night.

At home, Max acts like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’ll curl up on the couch, paw at me sweetly, and look at me like, “What? I’m just a lovable dog.” But I know the truth. He’s plotting. His mind is a filing cabinet of my weak points, and every day he adds a new folder labeled “Future Embarrassment Opportunities.”

One rainy Tuesday, I was on a video call for work. Important meeting, cameras on, everyone looking serious. Max had been quiet, so I assumed he was napping. That was my first mistake. Halfway through my presentation, Max trotted into view carrying one of my shoes—not just any shoe, but the muddiest, smelliest sneaker I owned. He dropped it right in the middle of the frame, sat down, and began licking it loudly. My boss asked, “Is that… a dog?” I nodded, praying he would move on. Max, sensing my desperation, decided this was the perfect time to roll over, belly-up, holding the sneaker like a prized possession. The meeting did not recover.

It’s not that Max is badly trained—he knows “sit,” “stay,” and “leave it.” He just chooses not to obey when there’s an opportunity to ruin my day in a creative way. And he doesn’t limit himself to physical comedy, either. Max once faked a limp for three days. I took him to the vet, worried sick, only for Max to leap off the exam table like an Olympic gymnast the moment we walked into the clinic. The vet said, “some dogs do this for attention.” Max wagged his tail like he’d just won an acting award.

Despite all this, I can’t stay mad at him. Because right after he’s orchestrated one of his elaborate public humiliations, he’ll look at me with those puppy eyes, and I’ll find myself laughing. Maybe it’s because Max reminds me not to take myself too seriously. Or maybe it’s because I secretly admire his dedication to his craft. Embarrassing me isn’t just a hobby for Max—it’s his life’s missIon, and he executes it with precision.

The other day, as we left the house for a walk, I bent down to adjust his leash. Max gave me a look—half mischief, half innocence—and I swear I could hear him thinking, “Today’s going to be interesting.” And that’s the thing about living with Max: every day is a gamble. Will I come home with my dignity intact, or will I be the main character in another one of his public pranks? Only Max knows.

If you ever see a man at the park chasing after a golden retriever who’s running away with a stranger’s picnic blanket, just know—that’s me. And Max? He’ll be the one looking like the sweetest dog in the world, hiding the fact that he’s already planning his next evil plot.