I can't really call it a horror story because it was actually a little cute.
Dude invited me over to his apartment, where he had a dog. Boston Terrier, IIRC. It barked at me incessantly even after I reached down to pet him. It was less than impressed by me, perhaps rightfully so. His master takes him outside for a quick walk.
After returning, Master and I head to the bedroom where, apparently, the dog spends most of his time snuggled alongside his master. The Terrier runs in. Master picks him up and places him in the hallway. The Terrier bolts in before he could close the door, running toward me and barking more vociferously than before. Master picks him up, puts him into the kitchen, then races back inside the bedroom, slamming the door shut an instant before the pooch could catch up.
We start Doing What We Do. And his pet was demonstrably displeased with the heavier petting that ensued. Growls and barks continued on the other side of the door, increasing in volume and intensity. Then, Cujo mixes it up some more, clawing at the door with his paws. Then moping, then clawing, then back to aggressive barking again. Our own moans and howls were competing with his!
"Shut Up!", Master would occasionally yell toward the door. "Screw You!" was his pet's response, in Dog-ese.
Oddly, midway through the nookie, there was a period of a few minutes of dead radio silence outside the bedroom. I was worried the dog might have harmed himself. But not for long.
Amid our pièce de résistance, the Terrier issues a bellowing sound, as if to declare to Master, I AM THE LORD, THY DOG. THOU SHALT NOT HAVE ANY OTHER DOGS BEFORE ME.
This is proceeded by a series of full-on slams into the bedroom door. The poor thing was now resorting to attempts to barrel the door down, presumably to "save" his master. You'd hear it scurrying away in the distance, followed by an approach and then a WHUMP! THUMP! A raincoat hanging on our side of the door falls off the hook. Between the door and the headboard, now we're making competing thumping noises.
Mercifully, as we're concluding, the Terrier makes some closing yelps and finally gives it a rest. Or, so I thought.
Moments later, we get semi-dressed, and Master heads to check on the mutt to make sure he hasn't given himself a concussion. The dog gallops in past him, runs up and jumps as high as he can with his little legs to snap at me. Then, it nibbles into one leg of my jeans in a vain attempt to yank me off the bed and out of the bedroom. Master runs over and pulls him away, but not before Cujo leaves me with a mildly torn pant leg. I am very happy with my decision not to wear shorts that day!
We leave the bedroom to find a trail of Doggy Doo lining up along the hallway, and a puddle of piss where Cujo dotted his exclamation mark over what was unfolding before him. "Probably shoulda walked him a second time," Master surmises as I help him clean up the mess, the dog resorting to surly growls the whole time.
Doggie Master came over to my crib the next time, and he had to deal with one pissed-off goldfish.