Right now, my dogs are curled up next to me, attempting to convince me that they are not loathsome creatures. Neither is barking, jumping, or smearing poop into my carpet. It is this third, and most heinous crime, that requires them to flout their lovable qualities. Because, in the past three days, a poop-covered dog paw has twice breached the sanctity of my home. That's right: poop, in my house. Two times. The dogs seem to intuit the need to be adorable, lest they be destroyed.