I live in an older trailer where the air conditioning regularly decides it doesn’t want to work. One of the many times the AC stopped working, my parents call the landlord about fixing it. The landlord sent over an electrician and the electrician’s apprentice.

My sister decided to dye her hair red that day and started before they arrived. I was the one tasked with actually dying her hair. For those who have never dyed their hair red, the dye looks like blood.

The electricians arrived and knocked on our back door, I answered the door with a blood-red liquid covering my gloved hands and parts of my arms, clothes, and face.

Essentially, I looked like I had just murdered someone violently.

The apprentice stared wide-eyed at me and refused to come in until my sister, with dye still in her hair, came over and the electricians saw that no, I hadn’t in fact just murdered someone; I was only dying my sister’s hair.

I’m a cheap b*****d, so rather than renting my own place or, God forbid, buying a home, I usually rent a room in a house shared with others, and I put the rent money saved to better use instead. Despite horror stories I’ve read online, I’ve mostly had pretty decent rental experiences. Either we all get along, or more often, everyone stays in their own room and ignores each other, and you only see a reminder the other person exists once or twice a week.

That was except for one experience. We had four in the house, but the newest person, replacing a tenant who moved out recently, was trouble. He smoked pot while playing music way too loud all the time, causing the house to stink and be too loud to do anything, including falling asleep. He was rude and left us to clean up for his messes and otherwise was just a terrible roommate. He also was home all the time — as far as we could tell he had no job or social life — which meant there was no time he wasn’t around making the place unlivable.

We reported this to our landlord, who assured me something would be done. When that something failed to materialize, I started looking for a different rental location only to find my house listed on the sites I checked. It seems my landlord’s idea of “doing something” was to wait until he had a replacement before he removed [Roommate].

One day, the doorbell rang, and after a few rings without anyone answering it, I paused my game and went down to see who it was at the same time that [Roommate] came up from his basement room. [Roommate] got there first, only to discover police officers asking to come in to speak with us.

[Roommate] clearly got worried, immediately insisted that they couldn’t come in, and asked what they wanted. I eavesdropped long enough to piece together that the police wanted to ask questions about a string of burglaries that I hadn’t realized were happening around where we lived. [Roommate]’s evident terror reminded me of his only leaving the house late at night, and of some mysterious items he had brought home even later at night that trusting, naïve me hadn’t thought to be suspicious enough about at the time.

Me: “You can come in, officers.”

Roommate: “What?! No, no! You’re not invited. You can’t come in.”

Me: “I’m also a legal tenant here, and I say you’re invited. Come on in.”

[Roommate] tried to bar the way in and continued protesting that they couldn’t come in. [Officer #1] just glared at him before saying, “Excuse me,” in a tone of voice that was more demand than request, and [Roommate] backed down so the officer could enter.

Me: “Come with me, please, officer.”

I started leading him down the steps toward [Roommate]’s room and away from my own. There was nothing but his room and the laundry down there, so [Roommate] was immediately suspicious.

Roommate: “Hey, you can’t go in my room.”

Me: “I’m not taking them in it.”

Roommate: “Then what the h*** are you doing?”

We got down there and, as I expected given [Roommate]’s past pattern of behavior, the door to his room was wide open and reeking of marijuana. Keep in mind, it was still illegal in the state back then.

Me: “Can you see anything interesting?”

Officer #1: “Indeed. Is that a joint?”

Me: “He brought some stuff in a black cardboard box he didn’t want us to know about last night and put it in there, too.”

[Officer #1] started to go in, and [Roommate] started ranting that the officer couldn’t go in there and that he knew they need permission, etc. Of course, while I’m far from a lawyer, I know just enough to know that the officers can enter the home if any resident invites them, even if another doesn’t. While I couldn’t give them permission to search [Roommate]’s room — only shared spaces — once they were in the hallway, they could look in and see plenty of evidence in plain sight that would allow them sufficient probable cause to enter his room.

[Roommate] ended up facing charges for theft — apparently, someone saw him rob a home just to walk right into ours — along with the use of illegal substances, and I think some other charges.

I had a long talk with my landlord. I basically said that either [Roommate] could not be allowed back in the house or I was leaving, and I would convince the rest to leave, too. After our talk, the landlord decided to have a talk with [Roommate] about how he had breached the rental agreement by smoking pot and basically ban him from returning to the house.

Of course, I was still frustrated enough with my landlord’s failure to act sooner that I kept up my search for a new place and moved out not too long after that, anyway.

This happened a few years ago when I was moving from Tennessee to Wisconsin. I put in my thirty-day notice with my apartment complex and set up a day when my apartment could be inspected for damage.

When the day came, I went to the office to let them know we were ready for inspection.

Receptionist: “I’m sorry, but no one is available but me, and I can’t leave the desk.”

Me: “We need to get on the road. Is there anything you can do?”

Receptionist: “Just go. We’ll contact you about the results of the inspection.”

I left the address of the place I was moving to, and we left.

The apartments I was moving from were undergoing restoration, and they hadn’t gotten to my apartment yet. All that was left in my apartment were some folded moving boxes that we didn’t need.

About a month after getting to Wisconsin, I got a registered letter — costing the sender over $3 — telling me that I owed $3 for some damage in the bathroom of my old apartment and that it was due the next day. The apartments were being renovated, which meant they were tearing out a lot of the bathroom and redoing it, so any damage should have been taken care of with that.

I didn’t call the apartment complex; I called the district manager, who used to be the complex manager. He told me not to worry about it, as he would take care of it.

Seriously!

I had my own home on Airbnb before, but I am a messy person and it was hard to keep the shared kitchen tidy. Instead, I put a fridge, stove, etc., in an upstairs bedroom, and I marketed it as an apartment.

I received an enquiry asking if I would accept a family with young children for a month, and asking me to call a certain phone number. It is obviously against Airbnb’s terms, but I called anyway. I said that I had no issue with children, but I was not equipped, either. It also wasn’t a real apartment; it was the upstairs of my house.

Social Worker: “Look. I’m a social worker trying to sort out emergency accommodation for a single mum with kids aged seven and three and a baby. Let me know if you can get something together and what it costs.”

We came to an agreement, and I spent a day babyproofing the house. My social circle began offering everything for a young, homeless family.

The following day, an Asian woman in Muslim dress arrived with her children. Let’s call her Sarah from, say, Burma. She spoke English. I am a middle-aged white male. I showed her round and let her get settled in.

She knocked on my door the next day.

Me: “Hi, Sarah. How are you? How are your accommodations?”

Sarah: “My kid is reaching for the kettle. I need a solution. Are my kids too loud?”

Me: “Can you show me? Your kids are fine. Children will play and be noisy.”

She demonstrated how the toddler was pulling things off a table. I went to [Furniture Store] and bought some extendable table legs to raise it up. I took them to Sarah.

Sarah: “No, I don’t need them anymore. I moved it. I need a double buggy, though.”

In two days, Sarah had rearranged her whole apartment: beds, fridge, everything. She just closed the door of the makeshift kitchen. I was happy that she had made it her home.

Me: “Maybe I know someone with a double buggy in their attic. I will ask on Facebook.”

I got a refund from [Furniture Store].

Later, I got a message from Sarah on Whatsapp.

Sarah: “Can you get me some bread, milk, and butter when out? I’ll pay you.”

Seriously? I’m not responsible for your shopping.

Me: “Sorry, unavailable today. There is a corner shop at [Location]?”

By this point, she had obtained a double buggy from somewhere. I learned she was an asylum seeker, which I was fine with.

Sarah: “Do you like beef ravioli? The food shelter gave me this, but it isn’t halal.”

Me: “I… Okay, sure.”

I felt a little guilty eating food intended for a hungry person, but I hoped it was a one-off.

I came into the house one day to a heavy smell of dampness upstairs. Sarah had done three washes of clothes and hung them up in her “apartment.” That can cause mould and pests like silverfish.

Me: “Hi, Sarah. You know you can hang stuff outside, or in the kitchen, too? I have the dehumidifier running. The air probably isn’t good for your children.”

Sarah: “Okay.”

She continued to hang things inside. She needed to be comfortable in her own home, so I didn’t press the issue while I thought of alternatives.

Another day:

Sarah: “My fridge doesn’t work. The orange juice is frozen.”

I put a thermometer into the fridge and checked the next day. Sure enough, it was -1C (30.2F).

Me: “My fridge-freezer works. Let’s swap them round.”

I took her fridge-freezer. She was right, so I scrapped it and bought another.

Sarah: “Would you like some more beef ravioli? I have about seventeen tins of food I can’t eat.”

Me: “Where did you get this?”

Sarah: “The food bank left it in a bag outside the house, and then they phoned me. I keep anything that has a halal label or is vegetarian. I can’t eat the rest.”

Me: “I will eat it. What food bank?”

Sarah: “[Charity].”

Me: “Thanks. I will ask them to check that it is halal.”

I contacted the charity and explained that Sarah was Muslim, and when they donated things she couldn’t eat, someone else went hungry. I only provided her with a home; I hadn’t the time to chase them to take it back.

The worst part was trying to get paid on a monthly lease. I did not have a direct contact, but the social worker dealt with me.

Me: “Hi, [Social Worker], can you check with Accounts Payable that they received my invoice?”

Social Worker: “Yes, they received that to be paid via [Emergency Housing Fund].”

A week later…

Me: “Hi. No payment has been received and it is overdue. Please tell them that if it isn’t paid by tomorrow, I make Sarah and her children — seven, three, and one, homeless overnight. Also, I will come to their office and read them the riot act.”

I received payment immediately.

Out of all the businesses I have run, Sarah must be my favourite client. She fled persecution to my country for safety. She feeds and homeschools her children on next to nothing from the government. When she needs something, she asks for it. Or better, she asks for forgiveness instead of permission. I found she has a very strong case for asylum.

My husband and I are renting out the main floor of a house we own. We post a listing on Facebook Marketplace. We include in the description that no dogs are allowed, but cats are okay, as long as they are fixed. I especially am very firm on my no-dogs rule.

We get many, many messages from people sending photos of their dogs, asking if we would allow one with a pet fee, saying their dog is a particular size, age, etc. — i.e., “They’re [breed] and only ten pounds!” — and asking if we would consider it. The answer is always no.

We get one prospective tenant who mentions that she has a couple of cats. She likes the place and seems responsible, and after thinking about it, we decide to offer it to her. 

A week passes, and we meet up at a local coffee shop for her to sign the lease. We get to a part that says “pets allowed” and we have “no” checked off. She gets a panicked look.

Us: “Oh, sorry about that! We missed that. We’ll put in here that it’s okay. You have two cats, right?”

Tenant: “And a dog! Look!” *Shows us a photo* “He’s very old and has a tumor and probably won’t live much longer.”

We went ahead with signing the lease since we were both taken by surprise and were running out of time; we’d just lost an entire week of looking for other prospective tenants since we were planning on signing the lease with her. The way she was talking, I was even wondering if the dog would survive long enough to make the move since it was a few weeks out from the move-in date.

But no, the day came when she moved in. We immediately started getting complaints from the tenant downstairs about the dog barking a lot.

…and that’s EXACTLY why I had a “no dogs” rule.

I know there are responsible dog owners out there. But you can’t always trust people, including dog owners who say their dog is not a problem.

I wonder if the tenant just didn’t see that part in our ad, figured it would be no big deal if she conveniently forgot to mention it, or actually did forget to mention the dog. I will be asking any future tenants straight out what pets they have.