Here's my revenge.
Spencer is on a regimen of drugs for his condition. One of those drugs makes him pee like a racehorse, and as such, is typically only given to him when I know I (or a designated roommate) will be home for a 5-6 hour stretch so he can be let out regularly.
Because frankly, you just don't want to know what happens to that dog when he's on that medicine. It's like he takes the pill and suddenly, all previous house training disappears.
If he doesn't get taken out hourly, there's no patient waiting by the door to be let out. No warning whining. No holding it.
There's just your house. And a 15-pound pee bag disguised as a dog, waiting to go off, preferably in the areas and on the belongings you love most. A urinary terrorist.
So you know no good can be coming when you get a text around 12:30pm on a workday that says,
Hey, did you give Spence his pee pill this morning?
As it turns out, in my haste to get out the door this morning, I did give Spence all three pills instead of his typical morning two.
And Spence rewarded me for that oversight by peeing all over Diego's bed, clean laundry, and our hallway.