Game of Thermostats

Hello there, dear reader! Winston here, your cutest French Bulldog friend with the squishiest face and most unparalleled sense of drama. This week, I bring you the scoop on what I’d call a Game of Thermostats. Grab a cozy blanket (or don’t if you’re one of those kinds of people), and let’s dive into my week of thermostat chaos and questionable human behavior.

It all started after we had one glorious weekend of warmth, a brief, wonderful chance to remember how amazing it feels not to be freezing all the time. But, as if the universe couldn’t let us have nice things, the warmth disappeared as quickly as it came. The cold returned, and suddenly chaos broke out in the office. Why? Because after that tiny taste of comfort, everyone was tired of freezing, and certain individuals (you know who you are) decided to wage war over the thermostat like it was a medieval treasure.

Now, let me set the record straight. There are only two sane opinions about temperature: warm is delightful, and cold is an act of treason. Simple as that. Anyone who enjoys cold temperatures is highly suspicious in my book, possibly even a supervillain in disguise. Seriously, who LIKES feeling like they’re being pelted by tiny icy daggers? What kind of sick masochist are you? What’s next? Intermittent fasting? Willingly starting a conversation with that one family member at Thanksgiving who’s too opinionated? Taking a Tums when you’ve already been backed up for days? Seek help, Sharon. Seek. Help.

Anyway, back to the battlefield. Picture this: Auntie Warm cranks the thermostat up to something bearable, beautiful, even, and just when you think sanity has prevailed, Auntie Ice Queen swoops in and jabs that dial back down. Rinse and repeat this madness approximately 4,000 times in one workday. My poor Frenchie soul couldn’t handle the emotional whiplash. Every five minutes was a dreadful guessing game of “Will I need to burrow under a blanket or will the fires of comfort prevail?”

Naturally, I took matters into my own… paws. I found myself a prime spot by the faithful space heater, a beacon of hope amidst the office chill wars. But alas, my serenity was short-lived. Some misguided, frost-loving auntie decided the space heater was “too warm” and had the audacity to turn it off. Yes, you read that correctly. TURNED IT OFF. I cannot stress this enough: betrayal doesn’t come in a more tangible form than this. My wrath was… incandescent.

At this point, it was clear they needed a hero to end the madness. A leader. A French Bulldog of courage and conviction. Spoiler alert: That leader was me. I took up a strategic position by the central thermostat, the contested artifact at the heart of this war. After careful deliberation, I set it to a perfect 70 degrees, a temperature I deemed fair, just, and most importantly, warm enough to prevent frostbite.

But, of course, people just couldn’t leave it alone. Every time someone approached the thermostat, I let out a howl. Not a bark, not a whimper, but the kind of ear-piercing, soul-shaking howl that sends shivers down your spine. I made it very clear that any attempt to meddle with my peaceful compromise would be met with round-the-clock siren-level howling. And guess what? My strategy worked. After a few attempts, the humans backed off. Victory was mine.

Now, as I reflect on this exhausting ordeal from my corner of domestic heroism, I feel I’ve done my part to establish a more civilized and humane office environment. If you ask me, the world would be a better place if people just embraced a bit of warmth. Being cold is overrated, dear reader, and I will die on this hill (preferably wrapped in a fleece blanket).

Until next week, stay warm, stay rational, and remember: a space heater should never be turned off while a pup is using it. I will call PETA if it happens again.

You’ve been warned,
Winston 🐾