That Time I Showed a House and Accidentally Toured a Dispensary

One of the things I love most about real estate is helping buyers find those diamonds in the rough—the unloved, slightly crusty homes that just need a little TLC and a vision board. So when my client told me she was looking for a fixer-upper in Denver’s red-hot Cory-Merrill neighborhood, I was all in. Classic 1950s brick ranch? Check. Oversized lot? Check. Priced at $420,000? Cute… wait. 420? In Denver? Okayyy.

The lockbox code? 0420.

I should’ve known we were in for an experience.

We walk up to the house on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, full of optimism and HGTV-fueled excitement. But the moment I cracked open the front door, I realized we weren’t about to tour a starter home—we were about to take a deep inhale of someone’s actual lifestyle.

The smell hit us like a sentient cloud. Not just a “someone burned one in here last week” kind of smell. No, this was a I think I’ve just been absorbed into the bloodstream of a marijuana plant situation. If THC were a person, it had invited us in and offered snacks.

Still, we're professionals. We press on—eyes watering, nostrils flaring, mouths awkwardly open in an attempt to breathe around the intensity. “Let’s check out the kitchen!” I chirp, trying to pretend I haven’t completely lost my sense of direction and reality.

Except... there was no kitchen. Or at least, not one recognizable as such. A countertop? Vaguely. An oven? Unclear. A full HVAC-meets-laser-tag setup of wires and ductwork? Oh yes. Everywhere. Honestly, it felt less like a home and more like a NASA training lab built by someone with a YouTube degree in “how to grow very, very illegal things indoors.”

And then... the basement.

At first, we weren’t sure where the eerie purple glow was coming from. Then we realized: there was no door to the basement. Just an open stairwell descending into what looked like either a blacklight rave or the birth chamber of a sci-fi villain. The lights down there pulsed in a way that made me feel like something was definitely alive.

And then we saw them.

Three hulking Rottweilers. Standing shoulder to shoulder behind a plastic baby gate, teeth bared in a low, menacing growl that vibrated up the stairs like a subwoofer of doom. Not barking. Just… communicating. “You go one step further, and we’re gonna have a real showing.”

I froze. My client froze. The dogs did not freeze.

We slowly backed away from the open stairwell of danger, the weed fog, and the ghost of whatever once was a kitchen, and exited stage left—grateful to have escaped with all our limbs and our legal records intact.

Look, I love a good deal and a house with “potential.” But if your listing smells like a dispensary during harvest and glows like a Pink Floyd concert, maybe reconsider whether it’s show-ready. Bonus tip: if your security system involves a baby gate and three large dogs trained in Advanced Intimidation, that’s a pass for active showings.

We didn’t buy it. But we did get a great story.