Dead Plate Oneshots Furry Little Saboteur

Something wholesome for Vince’s birthday

Vincent Charbonneau didn’t think adopting a dog would turn his life into a slapstick comedy show. But, boy, was he wrong. When he walked into that shelter, all he wanted was some companionship—someone who wouldn’t judge his cooking or ask why he was still single at thirty-two. A dog was supposed to be easy. Dogs were loyal. Dogs wouldn’t critique his risotto.

Enter Rody.

Rody, the scruffiest, most stubborn-looking mutt in the shelter, with big green eyes that seemed to say, *“I’ll ruin your life, but you’ll love me anyway.”* Vincent had taken one look at him and thought, *“Yeah, he’s perfect.”*

It started innocently enough. Rody wagged his tail, let Vincent scratch his head, and even curled up at his feet that first night like the perfect little dog. Vincent had thought to himself, *“I’ve nailed this. Dog ownership? Piece of cake.”*

That delusion lasted about 24 hours.

The first sign of trouble was when Vincent tried to invite a friend over for dinner. It was supposed to be a simple, casual night in. They sat on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, catching up like normal people. But Rody had other ideas. As soon as Vincent’s friend sat down, Rody plopped himself right between them on the couch, all fifty pounds of him, and stared daggers at this poor guy like he had just insulted his entire dog lineage.

Vincent laughed it off. “He’s just protective,” he’d said, nudging Rody aside.

His friend reached out to give Rody a friendly pat on the head, but before the hand could land, Rody shot a *look*—the kind of look that made grown men reconsider their life choices. Vincent’s friend awkwardly retracted his hand, and the evening continued with Rody parked like a furry sentry between them.

Things only got worse from there.

By the time Vincent decided to dip his toe back into the dating pool, Rody had transformed into a full-on, possessive menace. Every man who dared to enter Vincent’s apartment faced the same trial by fire.

The first guy, a sweet man named Marc, never stood a chance. They had barely finished dinner before Rody made his move. Marc had leaned in—just slightly—to compliment Vincent’s cooking, and before the words were even out of his mouth, Rody had wedged himself *on* Marc’s lap, glaring up at him like, *“You thought you were special? Think again.”*

“Is he… okay?” Marc asked nervously, trying to shift Rody off his legs. Rody didn’t budge. It was like trying to move a brick wall with a fur coat.

“He’s just… attached,” Vincent mumbled, pulling Rody off as best as he could. The dog gave Marc one last warning look, as if to say, *“This is your first and last warning, buddy.”*

The date ended soon after, with Marc making a quick excuse about needing to get up early the next day. Vincent tried to explain that Rody was just being “playful.” Marc didn’t believe it. And to be honest, neither did Vincent.

But did he give up on dating? Of course not. No, Vincent was determined. The next guy would go better. *It had to.*

Spoiler: It did not.

Guy number two—Julien—was tall, dark, and handsome. Vincent had gone all out, making a three-course meal, complete with candles, wine, and some mood music. *This* was the night, Vincent thought. He was going to nail it.

Rody had been suspiciously quiet all evening, lounging in the corner, watching. Julien made the mistake of thinking this meant the dog had accepted him. Rookie move.

They’d just started on dessert—homemade crème brûlée—when Julien leaned in for a kiss. Vincent, finally feeling relaxed, leaned in too. It was all very romantic… until Rody decided it was *too* romantic. Like a bat out of hell, he leaped onto the couch and wedged himself between their faces, nose bumping into Vincent’s chin, paws digging into Julien’s lap.

Julien froze, eyes wide. “Uh, is this… normal?”

Vincent, mortified, tried to shove Rody off. “He’s just… affectionate.”

Affectionate? Rody was practically *glaring* Julien into oblivion. He stayed wedged between them the rest of the night, his head resting on Vincent’s shoulder like some smug, furry third wheel. By the time Julien left, he was so rattled that he tripped on his way out the door.

Vincent groaned as the door clicked shut. “You’re killing my love life, you know that?” he said, looking down at Rody, who stared back innocently, tail wagging.

If dogs could smirk, Rody was doing it.

But the *coup de grâce*, the absolute disaster of all disasters, happened when Vincent invited his most promising date yet—a guy named Olivier who seemed totally cool with dogs. *“Rody just needs a chill guy,”* Vincent had reasoned. *“Someone who’s good with animals. This’ll be fine.”*

It was *not* fine.

Olivier, bless his heart, walked in with a bag of high-end dog treats, ready to win Rody over. Vincent was cautiously optimistic. Rody accepted the treats, tail wagging, and Vincent thought, *“This might actually work.”*

They sat down for dinner, Rody curled up next to Vincent’s chair (a clear win), and everything seemed perfect. About halfway through the meal, Olivier tried to hold Vincent’s hand. A simple, innocent gesture.

That’s when Rody made his move.

In a slow, almost cinematic fashion, Rody stood up, trotted over to Olivier’s chair, and—without breaking eye contact—started gnawing on the chair leg.

Olivier laughed nervously. “Uh, is he… okay?”

“He’s fine, just ignore it,” Vincent said through clenched teeth, hoping Rody would stop. But Rody didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down. He gnawed harder, his little dog teeth working overtime like he was trying to saw through a tree. The chair started to wobble.

Then, with one final *crack*, the leg gave out. Olivier toppled to the floor in the most dramatic slow-motion fall Vincent had ever seen, landing flat on his back with a thud. Rody, triumphant, promptly hopped up onto the now vacant, broken chair, tail wagging like he had just completed some great mission.

Olivier, staring up at the ceiling, muttered, “I think I’m just gonna… go.”

And he did. Without even finishing the meal.

As the door closed behind Olivier, Vincent turned to Rody, who was now sitting proudly in the broken chair, looking like he’d just won a medal. “What is *wrong* with you?” Vincent groaned.

Rody blinked at him, tail thumping. No remorse. None at all.

Vincent sighed, slumping onto the couch next to his misbehaving dog. “I’m never going to find someone if you keep this up.”

Rody just yawned, settling his head on Vincent’s lap, like, *“Good. That’s the point.”*

And that’s how Vincent, a world-class chef with a chaotic dating history, ended up spending most of his evenings on the couch with Rody, the dog that single-handedly ruined every romantic opportunity he had. Sure, Rody was a possessive menace, but he was Vincent’s menace.

And, despite everything, Vincent couldn’t help but love the furry little saboteur.