Every evening after supper, my husband and I scheme and whisper like spies as we plot ways to get our small dog to take her three pills… and nearly every night Josie outsmarts us.

I start in the kitchen with liver sausage. She neatly extracts the pills and spits them on the floor. I move to peanut butter. She clamps her jaw shut. Cheese, pill pockets—they all work only a few times.

Frank fares no better. Once, in the living room, I overheard him reasoning with her like she was a stubborn child: “Josie, you need these pills. Just swallow them and get it over with.”

Evenings that once ended with dessert now resemble co-conspirator huddles. “The vet suggested marshmallows,” I tell Frank. “And there’s a pill paste too.” None stands up to Josie’s cunning. About the time we think we've got all three down her, we later find pills under the couch, behind a chair, or on the carpet. She must have tucked them in her cheek to spit out later.

Frustrated, I decide to assert my authority. I’m the human here. I watch YouTube demonstrations on how to pry open a dog’s mouth and drop a pill in. Josie thrashes like a toddler refusing medicine. I give up on that idea, but, still determined, I buy a “pill shooter,” a contraption you load, aim, and fire into the dog’s mouth.

Back in the living room, Frank and I lean in like partners in crime. “I’ll hold her,” I say. “You plunge.”

The first attempt ends with Josie spitting all the pills onto the carpet. The second goes better: Frank shoots them deeper, tips her head back, and clamps her mouth shut until we see her swallow. We cheer like champions. “Who’s the boss now!” I crow, rushing to reward her with jerky.

The next evening, we assume our positions again, confident. Josie swallows—or so we think. Then, with the flair of a stage magician, she produces a pill from somewhere inside her cheek and drops it on the carpet. By the time I set her down to search, it’s gone. Hours later, I discover it on the bedroom carpet, apparently having hitchhiked in her fluffy coat.

I carry it back to the kitchen and set it carefully on the lid of a Tupperware container to continue this battle after supper. We sit down to pork chops, baked potatoes, and my favorite topping—cottage cheese.

One second, the pill rests safely on the lid. The next, the lid snaps and catapults it skyward. Even the Tupperware seems to be conspiring with Josie.

My food grows cold as I search the kitchen floor. Finally, exasperated, I sit down and spear a forkful of potato and cottage cheese. I savor the first bite—warm potato with cool, creamy cottage cheese—until my teeth crunch on something suspicious. I spit my mouthful into my napkin. The missing pill!

It’s time to give up and admit the obvious: I’m not in charge. Neither is Frank. Josie—or some external force—is pulling the strings, or maybe I should say spitting them out.

And isn’t that how life often works? Parents insist they’re in charge, but when their toddler throws a tantrum in a restaurant, they quickly ask for the check. (I’m speaking from experience.) Teachers declare authority until a single student derails the room. Or we plan an outdoor event, and unexpected storm clouds roll in. The harder we try to stay in control, the more life reminds us we never really are.

Life has a way of humbling us, often through the smallest of messengers. Around here, that messenger weighs eighteen pounds, has floppy ears, and leaves no doubt about who’s in charge.