The Topper

I'm usually not a complainer, but the past month and a half has just sucked. Between medical issues, family issues on all sides, the financial state of affairs all around, and my non-existent writing time for my professional development, I'm ready to explode! To top it all off, one of my dogs has decided that she should crap in the house and then hide it with whatever she can get a hold of. It's like the crowning turd on top of the huge steaming pile of crap already covering me.

For about two months, the dog has been leaving a pile of sh*t in the house at least once a week. She's getting older, I'm trying to be patient, but she's rapidly wearing out her welcome. I know I should probably take her to the vet, but that's just not an expense that's in the budget right now. So she leaves these surprises in the house that I have to go on a scent-o-rama scavenger hunt for. I can smell it. It's somewhere in the house. I just have to literally uncover it. The major pisser is that I'm usually in the house when she does it. I would gladly let her outside, but apparently that's too much to ask. So now, not only do I have to pick up a pile of dog sh*t, but I have to do laundry to boot, because she covers it up wit a layer or two of camouflage. Usually someone's clothing that happens to be within her reach. I feel like Sam Winchester after he lost the rabbit foot. ("I lost my shoe.") It's like the final straw. I'm going to lay waste to the surrounding populace because my incontinent dog is devious enough to bury her crap under a layer of my husband's dress pants! I have a feeling they won't accept that as valid enough reason to get me out of a killing spree in a court of law. Maybe if I throw in my slow and torturous metamorphosis into a redneck, I might be able to cop a plea bargain with a sympathetic prosecuting attorney.