I have grievances (plural)!!
Zayne, March 24, 2026
Someone asked me a perfectly innocent question:
“If you had to switch lives with a fictional character for a week, who would you choose?”
A normal person might choose Superman. Maybe Batman. Perhaps someone wealthy, brilliant, immortal, or living peacefully on a beach somewhere with absolutely no responsibilities.
Me?
Samantha Stephens from Bewitched.
One week. That is all I need.
I realize Samantha spent most of the series trying not to use witchcraft every five minutes. I respect her restraint. I would possess none.
By Monday morning, laundry would fold itself, dishes would leap into the dishwasher, dinner would appear fully cooked, and every bill would mysteriously develop a zero balance. I would probably spend the first few hours responsibly improving my life before discovering that unlimited supernatural ability and my personality are an extremely dangerous combination.
By Tuesday, I would stop using doors completely. Why walk into a room like some ordinary mortal when I can twitch my nose and materialize directly beside the refrigerator?
Wednesday is where things begin going off the rails. Telemarketers become decorative lawn flamingos. People who reply “K” to a three-paragraph text spend six hours as throw pillows. Anyone driving 42 mph in the left lane gets magically rerouted to Nebraska.
By Thursday, Davenport would have questions.
By Friday, I would have accidentally transformed City Hall into a Cheesecake Factory, made every pothole spit out dollar bills, and given Zayne the ability to speak English.
That last decision would destroy me.
Zayne would clear his throat, drag a tiny podium into the living room, put on reading glasses he does not need, and announce that he has prepared “a formal list of complaints against management.”
Apparently, I am management.
His complaints would include:
• Dinner has been served late on 147 documented occasions, several involving delays of more than eleven seconds.
• The word “treat” has been used recklessly, fraudulently, and without immediate delivery of said treat.
• Management routinely eats cheese without remitting the required dog tax.
• Management has repeatedly asked, “Who is a good boy?” without issuing any meaningful financial compensation.
• Baths continue to occur without written consent, legal counsel, or hazard pay.
• Veterinary appointments are routinely disguised as “rides,” which Zayne classifies as felony-level betrayal.
• Management has moved during naps, causing emotional distress, loss of blanket position, and severe disruption of snoring operations.
• Closed bathroom doors remain an unacceptable violation of transparency.
• Management has taken approximately 84,000 photographs without paying modeling fees, residuals, royalties, or snack-based compensation.
• Empty food bowls have remained empty for periods exceeding four consecutive seconds.
• Zayne has been falsely accused of begging. His official position is that he is conducting quality-control inspections.
• Management has repeatedly said, “You just ate,” which Zayne considers irrelevant, inflammatory, and unsupported by current hunger conditions.
• Portions have consistently failed to reflect Zayne’s personal assessment of his nutritional needs.
• The refrigerator remains locked behind what he describes as “an authoritarian door system.”
• Management has eaten entire meals directly in front of him and then acted surprised when subjected to prolonged staring.
• The phrase “drop it” has been used during legitimate private-property disputes.
• Squirrels remain active in the neighborhood, proving management has failed at perimeter security.
• Delivery drivers continue approaching the house without Zayne receiving overtime pay for emergency barking services.
• Management has repeatedly interrupted important barking investigations with statements such as, “Nobody is there.”
• Zayne rejects management’s position that trash belongs exclusively to humans once placed in a garbage can.
• Personal space rules appear to apply only to Zayne and never to humans who insist on hugging him at inconvenient times.
• Management continues operating under the bizarre belief that one dog bed is sufficient.
• Zayne has discovered multiple rooms containing perfectly acceptable furniture that management inexplicably refers to as “not yours.”
Then he would turn the page.
There would be another page.
And another.
By complaint number 63, I would realize this dog has been documenting everything.
“Item 64,” Zayne would announce. “On March 14, 2024, management consumed chicken in my presence and provided me with exactly one piece. One. Piece.”
Zayne would pause dramatically.
“Explain yourself.”
I would refuse comment pending legal counsel.
That would make things worse.
By Saturday morning, Zayne would have formed a union, retained an attorney, created a grievance committee, and launched a podcast called Things JT Has Done to Me.
Episode one: “The Cheese Shortage: A Household in Crisis.”
Episode two: “Vet Ride Deception: My Story.”
Episode three: “He Said ‘Just a Minute.’ I Waited Nearly Forty Seconds.”
Episode four would feature eyewitness testimony from the mail carrier.
By Saturday afternoon, the twelve llamas in my kitchen would have joined Zayne’s union. One would serve as treasurer. Another would somehow obtain my debit card. Zayne would represent all twelve during contract negotiations and demand unlimited treats, expanded couch access, dental coverage, three paid naps per day, and binding arbitration for disputes involving bacon.
City officials would arrive demanding to know who transformed City Hall into a Cheesecake Factory.
Zayne would immediately schedule a press conference.
“I cannot comment on ongoing litigation,” he would tell reporters, “but I can confirm that management has lost control of the household.”
Then Sunday night arrives.
The magic expires.
The llamas disappear. City Hall returns to normal. The potholes stop dispensing cash. The ottomans turn back into people.
Zayne loses the ability to speak.
He slowly looks at me.
I slowly look at him.
Neither of us says anything.
Then I open the refrigerator.
His ears go up.
I take out the cheese.
He stares directly into my soul.
I hand him one piece.
He keeps staring.
I hand him another.
Still staring.
A third.
Still staring.
At this point, I realize negotiations are apparently still active despite the loss of verbal communication.
I slide the entire package across the kitchen floor.
Zayne takes it, turns around, and walks away without so much as a thank-you.
Ten minutes later, I discover a folded piece of paper sitting on my pillow.
It reads:
“Management has agreed to the following terms:
- Cheese tax increased to 62 percent.
- Vet trips must be disclosed 48 hours in advance.
- Baths require probable cause.
- ‘You already ate’ is no longer admissible.
- All couches are now communal property.
- The phrase ‘Who did this?’ is prohibited without supporting evidence.
- Treat compensation will be adjusted annually for inflation.
- Management may remain in the home under a month-to-month arrangement.”
At the bottom is a paw print.
Under that:
“Noncompliance will result in reopening negotiations.”
I turn around.
Zayne is sitting in the doorway staring at me.
Then he slowly looks at the refrigerator.
Then back at me.
I open the refrigerator again.
He has not spoken a word in twenty minutes, yet somehow I am now living under a collective bargaining agreement negotiated by my dog.
I reach for the cheese.
The refrigerator is empty.
From the living room, I hear a bag crinkle.
I walk in and find Zayne lying on the couch beside the entire package, surrounded by crumbs, looking completely satisfied.
On the television is the opening screen of his podcast.
Season two.
Management Retaliation: The Cheese Incident.
Then my phone buzzes.
It is an email.
From Zayne’s attorney.
Apparently, I owe him three years of back treats, two thousand belly rubs, accrued vacation cheese, emotional damages for every bath since puppyhood, and reimbursement for “unauthorized veterinary transportation.”
I look over at Zayne.
He yawns, stretches across MY side of the couch, and closes his eyes.
The dog cannot speak anymore.
He does not need to.
He owns the house.
And apparently I owe him rent.
So, yes. Samantha Stephens.
Still my answer.
But next time somebody asks me an innocent Facebook question, I am saying Batman and moving on with my life. 😂
