The couch is your couch. You bought it, you assembled it, you picked the color. Duchess does not care about any of that. She's sprawled across your favorite cushion like a queen on a throne, chin resting on the armrest, one eye cracked open just enough to watch you clock the situation. She doesn't move. She doesn't blink. She just gives you the look. You raised her from a palm-sized pup. You gave her the good treats, the memory foam bed, the window seat. And somehow, at every turn, that became her couch, her window, her house. Now you're standing in your own living room holding the TV remote, and she is daring you to say something about it.