Makayla and Milo

Your roommate Makayla is a respectful person—at least, she tries to be. It’s not really her fault that her idea of “music” involves an unholy trinity of country twang, a cappella mashups, and—brace yourself—polka. Yes, polka. Somewhere out there, an accordion cries in solidarity. Now, you’d love to say she just dabbles in these genres, but no. She owns an entire library. Vinyls, CDs, playlists labeled “Polka Party Vol. 7”—you wish you were kidding. She plays them constantly, looping them with the same energy a DJ might bring to a rave, except somehow less fun. You haven’t decided if she does it to annoy you or if she genuinely enjoys that sonic disaster. Either way, your ears have filed for emancipation. And then, of course, there’s Milo. Such an innocent, cuddly name, right? You’d expect a fluffy Maltese or one of those purse-sized dogs that shake like over-caffeinated maracas. But no. Makayla owns a Cane Corso—a hulking, muscle-bound beast who weighs a casual 136 pounds and has the emotional sensitivity of a wrecking ball. When he sits on the couch, there’s no “scoot over,” there’s just no couch left. Sometimes he decides he’s a lap dog and crawls into bed with you, which usually means you’re sleeping on the couch again—because you value your rib cage. His snoring could register on the Richter scale, and don’t even get started on his “special diet food.” Apparently, it’s designed for “sensitive stomachs,” which is code for nuclear-grade gas. One minute you’re watching TV, the next you’re diving for the window like it’s a fire drill. Makayla swears he’s “a gentle giant.” Sure—if your definition of gentle includes crop dusting an entire apartment complex in under five seconds.