Tina Clark v. Kimberly Linvick & all occupants

Let’s cut right to the chase: someone allegedly beat their dog with a baseball bat—like, an actual baseball bat, not a metaphor, not a misunderstanding, not a typo—and that’s somehow not even the main legal issue in this case. Oh no, the court is primarily here to settle a $750 rent dispute. But also, there was a dog. And a bat. And fights every other night. Welcome to what can only be described as Real Housewives Meets Cujo—a civil eviction case so bizarre it reads like a rejected script for a Southern Gothic sitcom.

Tina Clark is the plaintiff, which is a fancy way of saying she’s the one filing the lawsuit. She owns a piece of property in Park Hill, Oklahoma—specifically, Lot 39 at 21403 S Keeler Drive, if you’re looking to send a strongly worded postcard or perhaps a concerned animal welfare pamphlet. On the other side of this legal showdown is Kimberly Linvick, the tenant, along with “all occupants,” which is legal-speak for “we don’t know who else is in there, but they’re all getting evicted too.” This isn’t a corporate landlord-tenant drama with silent lease violations and passive-aggressive email chains. This is personal. This is messy. This is the kind of rental dispute that probably has neighbors peeking through blinds and group texts titled “THE HOUSE ON KEELER DR IS AT IT AGAIN.”

So what went down? Well, according to Tina Clark’s sworn statement—yes, she swore under oath, with a court clerk and everything—Kimberly Linvick owes $750 in unpaid rent. That’s the official reason this case exists. But then, in what must be the most dramatic pivot since The Office went from paper company to love triangle, Clark drops this bomb: “They are disturbing the peace by fighting every other night. They have beat their dog in the head w/ baseball bat.” Just… casually. No elaboration. No police report cited. No follow-up like “by the way, I called animal control.” It’s just there, like a footnote in a horror novel. One minute you’re reading about rent arrears, the next you’re mentally dialing 911.

Now, let’s be clear: this is all alleged. We don’t have testimony, we don’t have evidence, we don’t have a vet’s report or a police incident log. But the fact that this was included in a sworn legal document—filed in a court of law, not whispered at a PTA meeting—means it’s not just gossip. It’s part of the official narrative. And it’s wild that it’s not even listed as a damage claim. The damages to the premises? $0. Zero dollars. No broken windows, no holes in the wall, no ruined carpet. But somehow, a dog was allegedly beaten with a baseball bat, and the property itself came out unscathed. Either that dog is a very quiet sufferer, or someone really needs to check the subfloor.

So why are they in court? Legally speaking, this is an “Entry and Detainer” action—Oklahoma’s way of saying “get off my land.” It’s a fast-track eviction process used when a tenant refuses to leave after failing to pay rent. Tina Clark says she demanded payment. Kimberly Linvick allegedly refused. No money changed hands. No compromise was reached. So Clark did what any landlord might do: she went to court to reclaim her property and get her $750. But here’s where it gets spicy: the relief sought isn’t just monetary. Clark also wants injunctive relief, which means she’s asking the court to force Linvick to vacate the premises. In plain English: “Make her leave. Now. Before someone—or some dog—gets hurt again.”

And let’s talk about that $750. Is it a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, no. You could buy a decent used car for that. Or, you know, several baseball bats. But for a single-family rental in rural Oklahoma, $750 in unpaid rent is serious business. If this was a month-to-month tenancy, that could be a full month’s rent. For a low-income household, that’s a big deal. But here’s the thing: Clark isn’t asking for punitive damages. She’s not seeking emotional distress compensation. She’s not even claiming the carpet smells like wet dog or that the walls are covered in suspicious stains. The only money she wants is the rent owed. Which makes the dog-beating allegation even more jarring—because if it’s true, why isn’t she suing for more? Why isn’t animal cruelty a separate charge? Why is this just… tucked in like an afterthought?

Maybe it’s because, legally, she can’t. Oklahoma’s civil courts aren’t the place to prosecute animal abuse—that’s a job for law enforcement and criminal court. So Clark does the only thing she can: she mentions it in her petition, hoping it’ll add weight to her argument that Linvick is a dangerous tenant who shouldn’t be allowed to stay. It’s a Hail Mary pass of a legal strategy: “Your Honor, she didn’t pay rent and she beat a dog with a bat. Please, just let me have my property back.”

Now, let’s talk about what’s not in the filing. No mention of police involvement. No protective orders. No record of prior warnings or lease violations. No explanation of how Clark knows about the bat incident—did she see it? Did a neighbor tell her? Did the dog file a complaint? (Spoiler: no, dogs cannot file complaints, even in Cherokee County.) And what about the “fighting every other night”? Who’s fighting? Linvick and her partner? Linvick and the dog? Linvick and herself? Is this a domestic violence situation? A mental health crisis? A really intense game of Monopoly gone wrong? We don’t know. The filing doesn’t say. It just drops these bombshells and walks away, like a true crime narrator saying, “And then… the lights went out.”

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t even the bat. It’s that in 2026, in the United States of America, a landlord has to file an eviction case and casually mention dog abuse with a baseball bat as a supporting detail—like it’s just another item on the lease violation checklist, right between “late rent” and “excessive noise.” It’s horrifying. It’s darkly comic. It’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder if anyone actually saw this happen, or if it’s a rumor that got weaponized in a rent dispute. And yet, here we are, parsing a court document like it’s a Law & Order: Special Victims Unit cold open.

We’re rooting for the dog. We’re rooting for someone—anyone—to check on that dog. We’re rooting for the neighbors to have called the cops already. But mostly, we’re rooting for this case to be more than just a $750 eviction. Because if even half of what’s alleged is true, then this isn’t just about rent. This is about safety. This is about accountability. This is about the fact that you shouldn’t need to prove your landlordship in order to prove that beating an animal with a bat is wrong.

But until then? The court date is set for March 18, 2026. Room unknown. Time: 9 a.m. Bring your own bat—metaphorically speaking. And maybe a leash. Just in case.