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from some sort of pooping disease. 
     I had the phone in my hand all set to dial when Drew had finally decided to tell me
     that he pooped in the litter box a few times to see what it was like.
    I've SCOOPED MY HUSBAND’S POOP!  Do you have any idea how NOT okay that is?
    And yet, it’s not even the reason why I want to kill him right now, although it should
     be.  So, not only do I have a three-year-old, a four-month-old, a husband, and a kitten,
     but Drew has come home tonight with a puppy.
    A PUPPY!
    Because you know, why not add one more thing to my list?  Really, on top of all the
     crap I already do, it should be a piece of pie to clean up after yet another person. 
     I’ve already had to potty train Veronica and Drew, might as well try a dog this time. 
     Maybe he’ll be easier.
    Not only did I have to stop Drew from pooping in the kitty litter, shortly after we got
     married, I had to get him to stop peeing on trees in the front yard.  And this was
     long before we even had kids, let alone had a puppy.  He claimed the pee was good
     for the trees and helped them grow faster.  Our neighbors had the most beautiful,
     tall trees, and Drew always saw their black lab peeing on them, so he assumed their
     landscaping looked so nice because of the dog.  I couldn't count how many times I'd
     look out one of our windows and saw Drew holding his penis with one hand and waving
     to passing cars with another as he “helped our trees grow.”  It got to the point where
     I had to start keeping an eye on him at all times.  When he had started crossing and
     uncrossing his legs and shifting in his seat, I knew he had to go to the bathroom. 
     I’d have to grab his hand and take him upstairs and stand him in front of the toilet
     and say, “You pee here!  You pee here right now!  You are NOT going outside, do you
     understand me?”  It had taken three months before he would head to the stairs instead
     of the front door to pee.
    Now Drew is fast asleep next to me, and I’ve been tossing and turning for the last
     two hours, trying to get comfortable in a bed that not only has us in it but now includes
     Miss Lippy and our Beagle puppy, Rollo the Janitor, too.  While the kitten hisses
     at the puppy and the puppy whines in fear, I lie here silently plotting how to kill
     Drew and if my friends will help me hide the body.
    “Oh my gosh, stop whining,” Drew mutters sleepily.  “Do you have to go out?”
    I lean up on my elbows and try to see Drew in the darkness.  I can just make out his
     form sitting up and feel the bed shift as he flings off the covers and stands up.
    “She just went out,” I tell him softly, assuming he’s referring to Rollo needing to
     go to the bathroom.  I had taken her outside about an hour before, and since she hasn’t
     crawled all over me and licked my face, I’m assuming that means she doesn’t need to
     go out again.  But Drew is either half asleep or doesn’t care and mumbles something
     about how it’s his turn to take the dog out.  I am not about to argue because if he
     can bring this thing home without talking to me about it first, he can damn well take
     it out to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
    I put my head back down on the pillow and snuggle under the blankets, listening to
     Drew curse under his breath about how cold it is outside and how the dog better make
     it quick since we had a huge snow storm earlier in the day and there is currently
     about a foot and a half of snow on our back deck where we let Rollo out to do his
     business as he picks up the dog and heads out of the room.
    Why do people say that about dogs going to the bathroom?  Do his business.  How is pooping and peeing like doing business?  I do business every day and it involves
     computers and phone calls and meetings.  That’s nothing at all like going to the bathroom. 
     Every time someone says that, I picture a dog walking into the backyard with a doggy
     briefcase in