Stinker Bell

That Dog. You know, the newest one on the block. The Boston Terrier that belongs to my daughter. That one.

The daughter. The only one that we have. The one that begged for her dog before the agreed-upon date. The one who couldn't wait to train it for agility. Who was frustrated that we used an overland delivery service instead of the airline, thus making her wait an extra month to get the puppy.

The puppy that poops on our floor. Because puppies don't come housebroken. They're like kids that way. I hate potty training kids and I hate housebreaking dogs. You'd think I'd not have so many of either, wouldn't you? Obviously I have learning issues. Maybe I just can't be taught. But we'll address that another day.

The daughter, who wanted The Dog, has made it a point to be away most of the days that her new dog has been here. Can she stay overnight at her aunt's and babysit her niece? Can she stay at a friend's house? (No, not her boyfriend.) Can she stay at grandma's? How can I say no since summer is all too short and school will be here before we know it? And now it's camp week. This all means that I have poop duty. Or would that be doody duty?

I think, in the absence of my daughter, I will take it upon myself to rename her dog. It's new name will be The Dog Who Poops In Inappropriate Places. I know that pooping on my carpet, in my kitchen, in it's kennel and in the hallway are all going to happen since she has no clue that that kind of stuff happens outside. It's what she does outside that warrants the renaming.

The Dog Who Poops In Inappropriate Places has crapped on my stone walk to the kennel, on the stone steps up to the garden, on the wooden beams around the patio (that are touching the grass - the dog literally had to balance herself on the beam to get this job accomplished), on the front walk, in the herb garden, in the flower garden, in the vegetable garden, in the grass where you put your foot when you come off the stone walk, in the drive where we get out of the van, and on the only paved part of the drive over the culvert.

The dog is an idiot.

We have 4.23 acres of land. Do you know how much of it is still in grass? A lot. As in, a LOT. We have a large front yard, a large right yard, a large left yard, a small back yard, and probably 2 acres worth of field. The corgis take great delight in running down into the deep-grass field to hide themselves while they take care of business. I love those fastidious little dogs. The spaniels, being the more stupid breed around here, can't be bothered to go the whole way down into the field. (Well, except for when they want to eat horse poop.) They will dump the lump in the lawn, but at least it's off the walkways, driveway and patio.

The Dog Who Poops In Inappropriate Places is an intelligent dog. She's easily taught. I have a sneaking suspicion that she is marking her territory. All of it. And she won't quit until every last thing we owned is pooped on.

I love dogs. I really do. But there are certain dogs on certain days that I love more or less than others. I think you can guess which list the renamed one is on.