The Day My Dog Humbled Me
Monday afternoon, one of those pesky pest control salesmen rang my doorbell.
You know the kind. Clipboard. Polo shirt. Determined optimism.
And somehow, they are always the same type.
Young—maybe twenty-five. Male. Clean-cut. Polite. Suspiciously cheerful considering how many doors probably get shut in their faces every single day. Always that cute boy-next-door look. The kind that makes you wonder if pest control companies have a secret casting department.
Honestly, I’m starting to think they have very specific hiring requirements:
Must be under 30
Must smile kindly while being rejected repeatedly
Must possess strong emotional resilience
Must look vaguely like someone every mom immediately thinks, He seems like such a nice young man.
This particular one looked exactly like that.
Poor guy never stood a chance.
The moment the doorbell rang, my 105-pound Bernedoodle and my 60-pound golden retriever puppy absolutely lost their minds. Apparently, they believed an intruder had arrived and immediate chaos was required.
They came barreling toward the front door—jumping, scratching at the glass, barking like they had personally trained for this moment.
I begrudgingly walked to the door.
Now, let me paint the picture.
I cracked it open just enough so only my nose and what my family might lovingly refer to as my “big mouth” were visible while two large dogs attempted to stage a prison break behind me.
Before he could fully launch into his pitch, I started telling him—probably more passionately than necessary—how frustrated I am with the marketing strategy his company and every other pest control company seem to use.
You know the one:
“Several of your neighbors have switched…”
As predicted, he went there, explaining how neighbors nearby had recently signed up. My interpretation? “Your neighbors are smarter than you, and I hope you get bugs.” And listen—I might have sounded calmer if I hadn’t been using the full force of my body weight to keep 165 pounds of wildly enthusiastic dogs from bursting through the door.
Instead, somewhere between holding back the hounds and losing my patience, I responded—in my full angry mom voice:
“I DON’T CARE WHAT MY NEIGHBORS ARE DOING!”
(Subtle, I know.)
I proceeded to explain how much I dislike the whole door-to-door, compare-yourself-to-the-neighbors strategy.
And then…
Karma arrived in golden retriever form.
My 18-month-old golden shoved her nose into the crack in the door and started pushing through with an unexpectedly large amount of fluffy ginger determination until suddenly, she was out—and free!
Like someone had just announced free ice cream somewhere in the neighborhood.
Friends, she was FAST. Not normal dog-running fast. Freedom-has-finally-come fast.
She flew across the front yard, through the shrubs, through the flower beds (thankfully still empty), and down the neighborhood sidewalk like she had been dreaming of this exact moment her whole life—tail wagging, tongue out, goofy dog smile, living her absolute best life.
Meanwhile, I stood there horrified, suddenly aware that I had just aggressively scolded a perfectly polite young man who was now a front-row witness to my unraveling.
At this point, I had two options.
First, pray crazy prayers to Heaven:
Lord, please protect this ridiculous dog. Please don’t let her get hit by a car. Please bring her back safely. Also… maybe forgive my attitude while You’re at it.
Second, ask the poor pest control guy—whose marketing schpiel had failed miserably and who had just been confronted by a crazy angry lady—if he would please, please, PLEASE help me catch her.
And he did.
Honestly, he could have walked away. He probably should have walked away.
Instead, he helped—calling her name, coaxing her toward him, and trying everything he could think of to catch the furry golden tornado currently treating our neighborhood like her own personal amusement park.
It didn’t work immediately, but he gave it his all.
Eventually, I managed to lure her home with promises of treats and wrangle my wild child back to the house while my Bernedoodle stood inside looking smug, like she was the good kid, having avoided involvement in the entire situation.
And there I was…
Walking back into the house with my dog in tow and my own tail between my legs—ashamed, humbled, and realizing something uncomfortable:
Sometimes we are absolutely convinced we’re right…until life suddenly hands us a very humbling moment.
I still didn’t switch pest control companies—though honestly, after all that, I probably should have—and insisted I pay double.
But I did walk inside reminded that none of us have it all together—not writers, not Christians, not women who send encouragement to other people while simultaneously losing their patience at the front door.
Sometimes we get frustrated. Sometimes we use our angry mom voice. And sometimes God lovingly uses a runaway golden retriever to remind us we might need a little more humility than we realized.
So, to the very kind pest control guy in my neighborhood:
If by some miracle you are reading this…
I’m sorry.
And thank you for helping me chase my dog.
— Julie
