There are mysteries in life that have stumped humanity for generations. 
What is the meaning of life? 
Are we alone in the universe? 
Where is the remote control?

Well, folks, I’ve cracked one of them. The last one. 
The remote? 
It’s under the dog. 
Always.

I don’t even bother with the frantic couch cushion toss anymore. No need to tear the living room apart like I’m starring in my own low-budget CSI reboot. I simply turn to my trio of furry companions and sigh: “Alright, who’s the tech gremlin today?”

Most of the time, it’s my little dachshund. Ten pounds of long-bodied sass and somehow always magnetized to anything with a battery. TV remotes, cell phones, a rogue Kindle once. He plants himself squarely on them like he’s doing me a favor. A squat, warm, snoozing favor. I can only assume he’s jamming to invisible frequencies I’m not cool enough to perceive. Maybe he’s syncing with the WiFi. Maybe he’s absorbing the remote’s power like a very low-tech superhero.

Then there’s the middle dog. Heat-seeking missile in canine form. If it gives off even the slightest bit of warmth—sunbeams, heated blankets, still-warm laundry, electronic devices—it’s his. I’m surprised he hasn’t annexed the toaster yet.

He doesn’t just sit on the remote. He claims it. Curled up like a cinnamon roll on top of a Roku, living his best warm-bellied life.

At least with these two, I can usually nudge them gently and retrieve my tech tools without much fuss. A little belly rub here, a “who’s a good boy” there—remote control secured, dignity intact.

But when the big dog decides to play remote squatter? 
Oh no. That’s a different story. 
That’s a full-blown negotiation. 
It involves strategic treat placement, soft bargaining tones, and occasionally, actual bribery. 
“You give me the remote, I’ll give you the fancy biscuits. Deal?”

And every time, I shake my head and laugh. Because sure, I could put the remote on the table like a responsible adult. I could tuck my phone in a drawer. But what would be the fun in that?

Life with dogs means life with misplaced remotes, fur-covered pillows, and the comforting certainty that if something’s missing—it’s probably under someone’s butt.

And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.