At first, it was simple, polite conversation and favours. "Would you mind scratching behind my ear? Third tile to the left."
Treddle didn't speak canine, and nobody understood the actor.
One night the polite conversation was replaced by demands. "Never bring a mop into this room!" Brandog barked. "You walk around! Not on, around! Get it!"
By this point, the entirety of the kitchen was now off-limits. Treddle had to stop keeping his vodka in the freezer.
Later that afternoon, Treddle awoke from a bout of day drinking. He could hear Brandog whispering, but to whom? He had no idea. His best guess would be the insectoid demons that had taken over the sink, freaky multi-legged bastards. There's also a splinter cell in the bathroom with biochemical counterinsurgency and freakish guerilla tactics.
Treddle was sure they were planning to one day invade the living room, his very last bastions of hope.