A personal record of one man’s struggle with a coprophagic terrier. Written in 1997.
READ THE RECORDHis name is Biscuit. He is six years old, mostly wire-haired, and has developed a taste for his own waste. Not occasionally. Not experimentally. Religiously.
It began last winter. I would let him out into the garden and he would return with the same satisfied expression he wore after finishing a plate of table scraps. Only there were no table scraps.
I have stopped inviting people over. The garden now feels like a minefield rather than a lawn.
Nothing works. I have tried pineapple in his food, hot sauce on the evidence, training treats as distraction, and once, in desperation, a tiny bell around his neck so I could hear the approach.
The bell only made it more theatrical.
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