When we brought home our golden retriever puppy, Max, we thought we hit the jackpot. Calm, cuddly, and a nap enthusiast, he was the definition of a chill dog. While other puppies were tearing through furniture and howling at the moon, Max was curled up like a cinnamon roll on the couch, snoring lightly. Our friends were jealous. “You’re so lucky,” they’d say. “He’s like a little old man in a puppy’s body.”
And it was true. Until it wasn’t.
See, chill dogs are fun and easy—until they develop weird obsessions. For Max, it was “air jail.”
Let me explain. We call the crate “air jail” because it’s made of lightweight metal bars, like something a cartoon prisoner might be locked in—except fancier. The name started as a joke, but it stuck. It was meant to be a safe, cozy place. At night or when we stepped out, Max would rest there with a chew toy. We never forced him in, and at first, he didn’t mind.
But then something changed.
One afternoon, I left the crate door open while vacuuming, and Max wandered in. Not unusual. But when I finished cleaning, he didn’t come out. Hours passed. I offered treats. I jingled his leash. I squeaked his favorite toy. Nothing. Max just lay there inside “air jail,” looking like the world’s most peaceful prisoner.
At first, we thought it was cute—just Max being Max. But then it became his thing. He’d ignore the plush dog bed, the sunny spot by the window, even my lap, just to sit behind bars like a canine monk in deep meditation.
Guests would come over, ready to be greeted by a tail-wagging golden retriever, only to find him lounging in his crate like he’d been grounded. “Is he okay?” they’d ask. “Is he in trouble?” No, he’s just in his happy place. His chill, metal-barred happy place.
We even tried moving the crate. Once, we placed it in a dark corner of the room, hoping he’d prefer the couch. Nope. He dragged his favorite toy in and curled up like it was the Ritz. He even closed the door with his nose once. On purpose.
It got to the point where we’d hear a thud in the night and find Max had opened the crate himself (don’t ask me how), let himself in, and fallen asleep like a tiny jailbird. A very content jailbird.
The irony? We’d always dreamed of having a chill dog—low-maintenance, sweet, quiet. And we got him. But no one warned us that chill dogs can be weird. Not chaos-causing weird—golden retriever levels of polite weird.
So yes, having a chill dog is all fun and games…until he likes air jail.
And now, the crate stays. Not because we need to crate-train him. Not because he gets into trouble. But because our golden retriever puppy has decided he’s a jailhouse pup—and we’re just the humans who pay rent.
