My best friend — Bruno is his name — absolutely loves the taste of horse manure. Heaven, for him, would be living on a horse farm. Which is where we lived for the past year while in southern California. Seven horses were our neighbors. To me, they were elegant if somewhat lazy beasts. To him, they were pudding dispensers.

I tried to be tolerant. But in this case it proved difficult. We’re not only best friends. We’re also roommates. And not just roommates — we sleep in the same bed every night. When I come home, he doesn’t shake my hand or say hello. Instead, he licks my face.

Bruno has four legs. I couldn’t reason him out of his unusual culinary taste. Advice from friends fell along two lines, roughly parallel to the war on drugs debate: 1) Treat the user, or 2) Eliminate the supply.

On both counts, the List offers ratings and reviews in categories fitting to the problem: 1) Animal training, 2) Addiction Recovery, or 3) Pooper scoopers.     

Neither came close to working. Bruno is incorrigibly, point-of-no-return addicted. I, as one scooper-wielding man, couldn’t keep up with the horses.   

Finally, a surrender and a solution, best summed up by another category on the List: Moving.