V for Vendetta, T for Toilet

I've been operating with a baseline annoyance of Steve for almost a year now. He takes toys that I stuff with treats for my dog, uses them outside with her and brings them back in muddy. He runs her around for a half hour and doesn't fill her bowl with fresh water. He takes my poop bags, ones that I buy for the poo bag dispenser that he also somehow ripped, and keeps them for himself (or other dogs, I assume and hope). The notes he leaves me are friendly and full of exclamation points about fun walks, belly rubs for the puppy, and warm wishes for good evenings and weekends but in person I would swear he fantasizes about pushing me in front of a bus. So, when he repeatedy shits in my bathroom, especially after last winter's Skid Mark chronicles, I can't help but think that it's personal.

I know I've spoken before about my strange hypocrisy as it concerns strangers (especially guys) using my toilet and you've also probably noted that I tend to get wrapped around the axle, emotionally distressed, and consumed with revenge when someone repeatedly desecrates my space. Three days in a row now, I've had to spray down my bathroom and wait hours before I'm comfortable using the bathroom because of stupid Steve. Yesterday, he left the bathroom fan running. I can only imagine what kind of loveliness came sliding out of him. Jerk.

Rather than another elaborate and ultimately unsuccessful booby trapped toilet, I'm just going to get a new dog walker. I don't want him coming in my house anymore. Shitting in someone's private space should be a last resort kind of thing, not a daily stop on your dog walking tour. When I booby trapped the toilet I was hoping he would have a nightmare experience kind of like the one I had with my friend. Ironically enough, I was dog sitting and he came with me to check on the dog. He started to feel really sick. You know that feeling when you can actively feel things moving through your insides, and you aren't quite sure how much time you have left before it becomes a no kidding emergency? That feeling. So he ran to their guest bath in the nick of time and pretty much claimed the space for Satan. It was a hallmark moment in the friendship. It became an eternal bond when the toilet got stopped up. The rising and swirling brown pond made us sweat with fear. That's got to be one of the universal top 10 worse things in the world to watch happen. I don't recall how but somehow we made it right again and we left the place as we found it. But we were never the same. We don't shit in other people's houses. We just don't. I'm going to go out on a limb and say MOST people don't. Not if they are only going to be there a few minutes and it isn't an emergency. Most people prefer not to air their insides in the confined space of someone's home. Maybe it's just me. Is it just me?

Regardless of whether I should discuss the benefits and side effects of whatever drug they make to cure me of my disgust with Steve's poop, I think we've come to the end of our time. I'm going to be home on Thursday anyway, it seems like a good day to interview some prospective replacement walkers. Until then, I'm going to seethe with equal parts of indignation and disgust as I clean my toilet, consider washing all of my towels, and replacing my toothbrush every day after work until I can fire his ass and Steve gives me back my key.