His Wrong Number Text About a Corgi Led Me Straight to His Bed

My phone vibrated against the polished surface of my desk, the buzz a welcome interruption. I’d been staring at the same logo redesign for the better part of an hour, the client’s feedback—"make it pop, but also more serene"—circling in my head like a vulture. My focus was shot. All I really cared about was getting an update on Winston.

I’d dropped him off with a new dog-sitter this morning, a cheerful girl named Mindy I’d found on a neighborhood app. She’d promised to send a picture once he was settled. My Winston, a stout, tan corgi whose body was so long and low to the ground he’d earned the nickname “The Loaf,” was my entire world. Leaving him with a stranger felt like leaving a piece of my own heart behind.

My fingers closed around the cool glass of the phone, and I swiped the screen open, a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. Please let him be okay. Please let him not be hiding under a couch, terrified.

But the image that loaded wasn’t of my Winston.

It was a corgi, yes, but this one was a ball of tri-colored fluff, its ears impossibly large for its head. It was sitting in the passenger seat of a car, strapped into a harness, looking directly at the camera with an expression of regal satisfaction. Below the photo, a message from an unknown number glowed in a green bubble.

Unknown: Operation Fluffernutter is a go. The target is secured.

I stared at the screen, my brow furrowed in confusion. I checked the number. It was from a local area code, but I didn’t recognize it. A wrong number, obviously. My first instinct was to text back a polite correction. But then I looked at the picture again. The dog, Agent Fluffernutter, looked so comically serious. The whole thing was absurd.

A slow smile spread across my face, the first genuine one I’d managed all day. The tension from my design work eased from my shoulders. It was a stupid, random, and perfectly harmless bit of fun dropped into my lap. Who was I to ignore it?

My thumbs moved over the keyboard, the idea forming as I typed. I knew exactly what to say. It was only fair to play along.

Me: Wrong target, agent. Our asset is code-named 'The Loaf.' I repeat, abort mission.

My finger hovered over the send button for a fraction of a second. It was a silly thing to do, engaging with a total stranger. But the thought of their reaction, the potential for a shared, ridiculous joke, was too tempting. I pressed down, sending my own secret message out into the world. The bubble turned from light to dark blue, and I set the phone back on the desk, my heart beating just a little bit faster than before.

The wait was only a minute, but it felt agonizingly long. I stared at the dark screen, my own reflection looking back at me, a faint crease of worry between my brows. What was I thinking? Texting a complete stranger, playing some ridiculous spy game. He probably thought I was a lunatic. He’d probably just block the number and I’d be left with the lingering embarrassment of my own weirdness. My phone buzzed again, and I jumped, nearly knocking over my cold coffee.

The green bubble popped up on the screen.

Unknown: Oh, man. I am so, so sorry. That was meant for my sister. Agent Fluffernutter is her dog. I’m the dog-sitter.

A wave of relief washed over me, so potent it made me feel lightheaded. He didn’t think I was crazy. He was just a normal person who’d made a simple mistake. I felt a pang of disappointment that our strange, brief interaction was over. I started to type out a response—No problem!—but before I could finish, another text appeared.

Unknown: But I have to say, ‘The Loaf’ is a 10/10 codename. Very mysterious. Very high-stakes.

I laughed out loud, a real, unrestrained sound that echoed in my quiet apartment. My fingers paused over the keyboard. The three little dots appeared and disappeared, a silent signal that he was still typing. I held my breath, a strange sort of anticipation building in my chest. It felt like standing on the precipice of something unknown and exciting.

Unknown: My apologies again for the mix-up. But the mission is ongoing. Would you… still be interested in receiving updates on Agent Fluffernutter?

I read the message twice. My lips curved into a wide smile. This was better than a simple apology. It was an invitation. A door left open to this absurd little world he’d accidentally created. It was anonymous, silly, and completely detached from the stress of my deadlines and the anxiety over Winston. It was perfect. There was no risk, no expectation. Just a bit of fun with a stranger who apparently had a sense of humor that aligned perfectly with my own.

My own dog-sitter still hadn't texted, but suddenly, I didn't mind the wait as much. I had a new mission to monitor.

Me: Mission accepted, agent. Don't go dark on me again. The Loaf is counting on your intel.

I saved his contact information under a new name, one that felt more appropriate than "Unknown."

Agent Leo.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed again. I snatched it up, my work completely forgotten.

Agent Leo: Update from the field. Agent Fluffernutter has successfully infiltrated the target location (my apartment) and is now conducting surveillance from a strategically chosen sunbeam on the rug. He appears to be asleep, but I suspect it's a ruse to lower the enemy's guard.

A small laugh escaped my lips. I leaned back in my chair, picturing the fluffy corgi deep undercover on a living room floor. My own work felt miles away now, the frustrating logo design a problem for a different version of me. This version, the one in contact with a secret agent dog-sitter, was having far more fun.

Me: A classic espionage tactic. The Loaf uses a similar technique, often feigning deafness when the word 'bath' is deployed. Stay vigilant. Has Fluffernutter made any demands? Rations? Treats?

The three dots appeared almost immediately. I found myself watching them, mesmerized by the simple animation, waiting for his next words. It was a strange, addictive little thrill, this back-and-forth with someone I would never meet.

Agent Leo: His demands are… extensive. A portion of my turkey sandwich was sacrificed for the cause. It was a necessary loss to maintain his cover. This spy business is tough. I have to step away for a few hours for my own cover—my day job. Or night job, really. Chef life.

A chef. The word conjured images of heat, noise, and controlled chaos. It was so different from my quiet, solitary world of pixels and Pantone colors. I felt a sudden, sharp curiosity about him. What kind of food did he cook? Was he one of those intense, shouting chefs I saw on television, or the quiet, focused kind?

Me: A chef? Impressive. You must be skilled at handling high-pressure situations. That will serve you well in the field. My own cover is less exciting. I'm a graphic designer. My primary mission today involves wrestling with the color teal.

Agent Leo: Graphic designer. So you’re the creative type. Explains the top-tier codename. I’m surrounded by screaming tickets and hot pans. Staring at colors sounds pretty peaceful from over here.

A notification from Mindy finally popped up at the top of my screen, complete with a picture of Winston curled up on a plush dog bed, looking perfectly content. The knot of anxiety in my chest finally, fully uncoiled. I sent her a quick thank-you text before switching back to Leo.

Me: It has its moments. But mostly it's me, my laptop, and a looming deadline. Your day sounds infinitely more interesting. Tell Fluffernutter to hold down the fort. HQ will be awaiting his evening report.

Agent Leo: Will do. He's a professional. Don't worry, HQ. Agent Leo is on the case.

I set my phone down, a smile lingering on my lips. The day still stretched before me, filled with work I wasn't excited about, but now it was punctuated by this secret thread of communication. A silly, anonymous game with a chef named Leo and his fluffy spy dog. It was a distraction, nothing more. A low-stakes bit of fun. But as I turned back to my monitor, the world felt a little less gray, and the color teal suddenly didn't seem quite so daunting.