Canis ut cenavit quispiam horrendus.

Three years of high-school Latin, and that's the best I can do. Still, slapping a dead language on a throwaway phrase like, oh, let's say, "the dog that ate something horrible," does lend it a more rarefied cachet.

This week's thaw has really brought out the smells of the trail. Smidgen zigzags along the paths, luxuriating in the wafting odours.

Then she eats whatever might be the source of that smell.

I wouldn't mind so much if she could just keep it down. Dogs that will gobble up anything the City of Whitehorse deems compostable shouldn't come equipped with a stomach made of eggshell. At least she's regular: six o'clock in the morning seems to be the heaving hour. There's no need for coffee after that emergency lurch to the back door to evacuate your erupting pet.

If you can improve on the translation, please don't hesitate to educate me. Learning Latin is, after all, a licence to forcibly improve others' grammar -- in any language.