Dog shits and breath mints

It’s like a Smorgasbord opened up at my house, and all they serve at the all-you-can-eat is steamy piles of dog shit.
It’s shitsville.
My house is the shits.

I have a guest dog in the house, Tosha, who will be here until her owners get back from Europe. She’s a 12-year-old German Shepherd.
She’s a wee bit deaf.
She’s got some hip problems and moves kinda slow.
And she’s stubborn (Will she sleep in the place I made for her where my dogs kennel? No. She’s a sprawl-in-the-kitchen kinda dog and that’s where she’s parked her ass no matter what).
The last time I watched her – over at her house – she didn’t eat for the three-days. That’s why she’s here. Dogs are social animals and we’re a clan.
(A troubled one, yes, but I invite you to look at your own families before passing judgment.)

We’re experiencing some technical difficulties.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
After several months of being good, Scully has gone back to eating Trinity’s shit. Mostly, as it falls from Trinity’s butt.
Tosha eats her own crap.
(And a shitstorm is born.)
I yelled, at first. But Tosha being deaf and Scully not really caring, the only one that suffered was Trinity, who has been hiding out in her kennel, thinking she was in trouble, when she’s the only pet that I can stand right now.
(The cats resent the new dog, and are pissed that their path to their food dish is blocked by 160 pounds of hulking black shepherd; Indy has reverted to puking on anything and everything – in my bed once – and Neo went into Scully’s kennel and shit and pissed on her rug. They are up for adoption, if anyone would like to take two cats off my hands.)

So it comes down to this: Each time the girls all go outside, I get a rubber glove and a plastic garbage sack and pounce on the shit before anyone else can get to it. I have actually built time into my life to do so.
I am Shit Czar.

Oh, and I bought an industrial-sized doggy breath spray.