What do you call a dog who steals your warm spot on the couch the exact second you stand up? The landlord. Gone ten seconds or ten minutes, bookmark and verbal claim be damned — the moment your butt leaves the cushion, the lease transfers. You were merely keeping it warm for him, and he thanks you for your service.
Look at him: sprawled diagonally across the entire cushion, taking up the space of three dogs, wearing the expression of a monarch surveying his kingdom. The smugness is load-bearing.
Rent is due in belly rubs, and he accepts no excuses or extensions. Try to reclaim it and you'll get The Look — the slow blink, the heavy sigh, 80 pounds of dead weight resettling dead center. Moving him would require a forklift and a court order, and he knows it.
You can have the spot back when he's done. He's never done. Find another seat, peasant. The rent just went up.