When my mother-in-law, Linda, moved in for a month during her home renovation, I expected minor annoyances—but not Max, her tiny mixed-breed dog, howling outside my bedroom every night. I begged her to control him, but she laughed. “Sounds like your problem, not his,” she said. That was the moment I decided to make it her problem.

Max was neurotic, growling at shadows, furniture, and anyone who looked at him too long. Linda insisted he was an emotional support dog, though he had no official status. The first night, after a grueling hospital shift, I was woken at 2 a.m. by his operatic barking, scratching, and howling. My husband slept through it, oblivious, while I lay wide-eyed, counting the minutes until relief.

The next night was worse. Max’s midnight symphony intensified—scratches, whimpers, and furry battering-ram attacks on my door. By morning, I looked like a zombie. Linda, cheerful as ever, shrugged off my complaints, insisting I should be grateful for his “protective instincts.” I smiled politely, but inside, I was plotting.

On night three, I recorded Max’s howls in high-definition audio. The next morning, I pressed play through a Bluetooth speaker outside their room at 6:30 a.m. while I went for coffee. The house erupted in Max’s own full-volume alarm. Linda and Gerald woke to their own chaos, furious whispers echoing through the walls.

That evening, Linda confronted me. I feigned innocence. “What horrible noise?” I asked sweetly. Her face turned red, stammering as she realized the sound was her own dog. She finally agreed to manage him properly.

The next day, the house was blissfully quiet. Linda packed up early, and Max was eventually enrolled in behavioral training. From that point on, he was calm and well-behaved. Sometimes, solving a problem means letting everyone experience it equally.