Mr, Fusspot has spent most of his adult life being as the very pattern of what a good dog should be: effortlessly friendly, passionately loving, patient with small children, docile at the vet's. He was already paper-trained when he came to me and the remainder of his housetraining was achieved speedily. But he is an old dog, and it has been a cold winter. I don't think we've been all the way around the block in a month. And yesterday he hit the wall.

It wasn't even the coldest day. I crammed him into his coat and harness and shepherded him downstairs and out the front door. He had taken only a few steps into the courtyard when he got a bit of salt in his paw. He held up the sore paw and gazed at me with the most appalling expression of pain and betrayal, and then he lost his shit. He ran on three legs to the front door, dragging me behind him. Once inside he ran around like a crazy dog and then, with no warning, popped a squat and pooped right there in the lobby. I made a graceful swan dive and caught the crap in a plastic bag just before it hit the floor, and thankfully nobody chose to open a door and look out at that precise moment. I gathered up the hysterical Fusspot and got him upstairs. He shot down the hall like he'd been fired out of a cannon, right into my apt and directly into his donut bed, still wearing coat, harness and leash, and he absolutely refused to move so I had to disentangle him from all of the above with him scrunched up and uncooperative bed. The look on his face was so transparently OMG WHAT IS THIS NOT AGAIN I CAN'T EVEN WITH THIS AAAAUUUUUGGGGHHH that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I don't blame him; that's pretty much what I feel like doing, too.