Let me tell you about Thelma.

Now, Thelma is technically our dog, but emotionally and spiritually, she belongs to my husband. She tolerates me. Like… she appreciates that I open doors and provide snacks, but she’s made it clear I’m not her ride-or-die. Still, we have a vibe.
So the other day, I had one of those weird sixth-sense moments—you know, the “I should check on the house for no real reason other than a mysterious gut feeling” type. I’m either incredibly intuitive or low-key psychic; jury’s still out.

Anyway, I swing by the house on my lunch break, and as I pull into the driveway, I spot Penny, our other dog, lounging in the dog pen looking as innocent as a Labrador can manage (which is to say, not at all).

But where is Thelma?

Cue immediate panic. You see, we never leave the dogs outside when we’re gone. And since Thelma is a part-time Houdini who’s been known to tunnel under fences like she’s escaping Alcatraz, I naturally assume she made a break for it.
So I’m in the yard, bellowing “THELLLMAAAA” with the desperation of someone who just burned dinner and lost the dog in the same hour.

Nothing. Silence.

No rustling, no joyful gallop. Just Penny, silently judging me for not solving this faster.

I’m about to give up and head back to work when I get a strange little nudge in my brain: Check upstairs. (Again with the psychic thing.)
I walk up and immediately know something’s off. My youngest son’s bedroom door is shut—and that door is never shut. If that door is closed, something is either broken, hiding, or… chewing.

I open it.
And there she is.

Thelma. Radiating pure joy. A fluffy, wiggly beacon of tail-wagging gratitude. She’s been released from her cruel fate—locked all morning in what she surely believed was a medieval torture chamber, but was, in fact, a mildly messy tween boy’s bedroom.

And then… I see it.
The wall.
THE. WALL.

She didn’t nibble the trim or gently scratch the paint. No. She ate the wall. Took out a whole chunk of drywall like it personally insulted her ancestors. This wasn’t light destruction; this was an exorcism gone rogue.
And here’s the thing—I didn’t even yell.

First, because I was speechless.

Second, because technically… it wasn’t her fault.
We left her in there. The door closed. She probably thought she was never getting out again and needed to tunnel her way to freedom. She Shawshanked the drywall, and honestly, I respect the hustle.

So I did what any rational adult would do in the face of absolute chaos:
I snapped a photo of the destruction, texted it to my husband with the caption “I found her!”, gently patted Thelma on the head, asked her if she had a rough day (she responded with a nose lick, so yes), and left for work like nothing happened.
Because sometimes in life, you don’t fix the wall.
You just… close the door.
And maybe pour a glass of wine when you get home.

Moral of the story: Always trust your gut. Never trust a closed door. And don’t underestimate what a dog can do when left alone with drywall and a dream.