Eight Poops a-Poppin'

Popping out for a quick, refreshing walk with the dog has never been such an emotional train wreck. Other people's dogs seem to be able to poop wherever, whenever the need arises, as evidenced by the startling frequency of stepping in poop that I do. Not one to be overly concerned with another's ability to take a well-rounded poop, nevertheless I've become entirely wound up in everything my dog eats and when she goes out. I'm convinced that if I err from the schedule or feed her the wrong thing, there will be poop in my house. Nevermind that there's rarely poop outside my house most of the time--especially lately, which has worn my nerves to the point that I stand anxiously peering at my dog's bottom, waiting to see the crowning signs that indicate it's time for her to go outside. Sadly, even then a poop isn't a guaranteed sighting. My dog suffers from DADD, Dog Attention Deficit Disorder, otherwise known as THE FUCKER WON'T TAKE A SHIT. My 'hood has lots of dogs, and my immediate apartment complex is the only place where the dogs are actually kept inside rather than outside, and none of the cat owners bother to coax the kitties inside at night, so at any moment, day or night, Ari will assume the position, expel the head of some poop, and catch sight of any of the 92349987234 cats and/or dogs running loose. SWOOP! The poop goes back inside and nothing can induce her to put her focus back on the task at hand. Enter a red-faced Chiquita, annoyed as fuck.

I am at my wit's end. I like to reward her for a job well done, using her favorite fat-free chicken jerky, but not even that is working anymore.

I WANT MY LIFE BACK. Poop.