It started innocently enough. One evening, I turned on Dateline for “background noise.” That was 57 episodes ago. Now, my dog and I are fully qualified to solve murders in small Midwestern towns.
His name is Cooper, and he’s a 70-pound golden retriever with trust issues — specifically with men who wear baseball caps, delivery drivers, and anyone who drives a box-like truck. Coincidence? I think not.
Every night, we curl up on the couch with a blanket, a bowl of popcorn, and a growing sense of suspicion. The moment the host says, “It was a quiet neighborhood,” Cooper perks up. He knows — it’s never a quiet neighborhood.
Somewhere around episode 200, things started getting weird.
I began narrating my own life like a true crime episode.
“She thought she was just running to Target… but she never returned. Because she found the clearance section.”
Cooper follows me from room to room now, always watching, always judging. I swear he’s analyzing me for potential motive.
My friends say I’ve changed. I say I’ve evolved — I now triple-check the locks, side-eye every white van, and have a mental list of which neighbors would definitely get interviewed on 20/20.
The other night, my boyfriend came over and reached for a snack without asking. Cooper growled. I didn’t stop him. “Good boy,” I whispered. “That’s what they call foreshadowing.”
Still, there’s something oddly comforting about it — me, Cooper, and the glow of yet another episode about a “shocking betrayal in suburbia.” It’s our ritual. Our quality time. Our weird, slightly paranoid bonding experience.
Sure, I may jump every time the ice maker goes off, but at least I know that if anything ever does happen, Cooper will be there — loyal, loving, and probably shedding all over the crime scene.
Moral of the story:
It’s not paranoia if your dog agrees with you.
Have a Puntastic Day!
The Laugh Loft