You know how they say animals don’t do things just to get back at you? I call bullshit on that.
Riley had to stay in my parents garage while I was visiting. While there, he trashed the place. He knocked over ladders, plastic boxers, and almost entirely cleaned off my dad’s workbench. He doesn’t do this kind of thing at home. He’s just fine when he’s by himself. He also resorted to taking care of his bodily business all over the garage, too. Just about every morning, there’d be a pile of poop and a puddle or two of pee. Trust me when I say my dog is more than potty-trained. This puppy of mine pees on command. I’m under the assumption that he was pissed and I can’t say I blame him.
And now we’ve been back for a few days, and he’s back to his lifestyle of sleeping on couches and watching TV all day, while never being more than three feet from me.
But he has a new hobby and it’s called shitting in the house. I’ve found no less than four piles of dog shit since we’ve been back. I thought maybe he was getting a bug of some kind, because it’s not like he’s even telling me he has to go outside. But since the poop is (hey, how about some poop details?) solid and looks completely normal (I inspect all of his poop, because I’m paranoid and am always scared there’s going to be something like blood or worms or bodily organs coming out onto the ground.), that’s not my biggest concern anymore.
We just went outside and he took care of both kinds of business. Then, we came inside, I fed him, and wouldn’t you know it, he walks over by the couch and just craps a bit more. Right the fuck in front of me. I busted him for it, so he stopped and then ran off. I went to go get him, and he tried to test my strength by refusing to walk the whole way over to his magical pile of dookie. I just make him look at it (I know, it probably doesn’t work that way, but I’m not going to put my dog’s nose that’s on me all the time in some shit.) and then he runs away – embarrassed, scared, I don’t know.
Now I have this grown dog, who’s old enough to pick out which collar he wants to wear, and old enough to bring his dog dish to me when it’s empty, randomly pooping on my floor.
The only conclusion I can draw out of this whole pooping saga is that he’s still mad that he had to be a junkyard dog for a couple of weeks and couldn’t stretch out on the couch when he was ready for a nap. Because otherwise, nothing else makes sense.