I Tried to Teach My Dog to Use Zoom

Let me start by saying this: I didn't intend for any of this to happen.

I'm not a dress-up-my-dog type or have an Instagram account for them. I am a plain work-from-home person with a hyper Jack Russell terrier named Milo and a lousy, tragic need for online meetings.

You might believe teaching a dog how to use Zoom is excessive, ridiculous, even a little mad.

You'd be correct.

But it started over an issue. A genuine one, a furry one.

The Bark Heard 'Round the Call

Milo barked at every single meeting. Every. Single. One.

If I was presenting quarterly reports, brainstorming with the design team, or explaining to a confused intern why we cannot use Comic Sans in our pitch decks—Milo would wait until I unmuted, then bark from the depths of hell-beings.

Worst part? My team LOVED it.

"Oh my gosh, is that Milo? He's so chatty!"

"I think Milo had some opinions on the budget."

"Can Milo host the next meeting in your place? Just kidding. (Unless…)\\Repository

My manager once abruptly terminated a meeting simply so that we all "could see more of the puppy." It was cute—for a minute. But I could sense my credibility slipping away from me. I was being "Milo's human" instead of a professional.

So I did the only thing a somewhat sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated remote worker could do.

I tried to train my dog on how to use Zoom.

Step One: Attention Span? Never Heard of Her.

The first task was to have Milo sit in front of the laptop without trying to lick the webcam. He was absolutely sure that the little green light was a treat dispenser.

I slathered peanut butter onto the keyboard. Fail.

He launched into a keyboard-smashing frenzy that crashed my laptop, sent a blank email to HR, and accidentally renamed a group project folder to "woofwoofwoof394!!!".

Making progress.

Step Two: Mute and Unmute

I thought I'd train Milo to bark once to unmute, and two times to mute himself. Simple, right?

Except dogs bark at will. Milo barked to unmute, to mute, to show hunger, joy, confusion, and deep existential terror about the squirrel outside.

I utilized a dog treat-dispensing game with voice commands—"Bark once for snack, Milo!"

He barked once. I gave him a snack. Success.

Then he barked once a minute. For an hour.

I was being extorted by a dog. With Zoom.

Step Three: Camera Presence

You haven’t lived until you’ve watched your dog try to make eye contact with a ring light. Milo was convinced it was the Eye of Sauron. He refused to look directly at it. Instead, he gave side-eyes to the screen like a shady politician.

I tried to pan the camera down. Now all anyone received was a close-up of his nostrils and the occasional flicking of the tongue. My boss informed me it was "the most unnerving yet oddly engrossing thing she's ever witnessed on a Zoom call."

The week we had record attendance for our Monday meeting.

Then It Got Weird

I was asked in jest whether Milo could "fill my shoes" on a client presentation.

So I did it.

I logged on, turned on the camera, and left. Milo took a seat in the chair—tied up, I'm not even kidding—and glared at the webcam like he was about to release government secrets.

The client loved it.

They called it "bold branding." Said it "pushed the boundaries of digital engagement."

We landed the account. Milo got a belly rub and the crust off a leftover pizza. I got a raise.

I should have left it at that.

But I didn't.

Milo the Manager

As he continued to grow in popularity, I created a second Zoom account for Milo.

Username: MiloTheManager

I set up a dummy meeting with him. Just for laughs.

But I didn't set it to "private."

The next morning, I woke up to discover Milo hosting a 20-minute meeting—with six coworkers, two clients, and one confused intern who thought he was being brought on by a new group.

According to the chat log, somebody even said:

"Milo nods with more conviction than most directors I've worked with."

That's when it hit me: Milo was doing a better job of mine than I was.

Corporate Climber

Over the next few weeks, Milo:

Attended three brainstorm meetings

Was shortlisted for "Employee of the Month"

Got a personalized company hoodie with his name on it

Was asked to speak (bark?) on a "Remote Culture Panel"

And yes. They asked him to a calendar invite.

The Downfall

It all went sideways when Milo "accidentally" sent a Slack to the CEO.

It simply said:

"gib chkn"

The CEO responded with, "On it."

I was called in to a real meeting. With HR. No Milo.

Apparently, some people were uncomfortable with the absence of professional boundaries. They were worried about "canine influence in sensitive decision-making." Whatever that means.

Milo was offboarded nicely. His Zoom account was disabled.

There were tears. My tears.

He didn't seem to mind. He retrieved a sock from under the couch and rang the bell.

Life After Zoom

Today Milo sunbathes, chases the same fly for four hours, and occasionally swipes at my laptop when I start a meeting.

I think he misses it.

Sometimes in the wee hours of the night, I hear him barking at the webcam again.

Just a single bark.

The global Zoom signal for:

"I'm unmuted."

???? Final Thoughts

Don’t try to teach your dog to use Zoom. You’ll lose your sanity, your credibility, and maybe even your job.

Unless your dog is Milo.

In which case, he’s probably already hosting a webinar.

And doing it better than you