I am scourged by dogs. My daughter's neurotic dog--which at some point became two dogs, one neurotic and one, um, (may I use the "B" word here? ) assigned by Satan to torment me. Then, there's my mother's dog, which is sometimes my sister's dog. It's complicated. And then, there are my son's dogs.

Why are these dogs my cross to bear, you ask? Because everyone brings their damned dogs to my house, where each and every mangy one of them has left a mark on Laura's carpet. Satan's Bitch from Hell, Bootsie, also ate my entire water garden one day. This was after my daughter said "Daddy, do you think we should leave Bootsie in my room or outside?"

Me: "I think Bootsie would be happier outside. We're going to be gone awhile."

Well, Bootsie from Hell was plenty effing happy, let me tell you. Bootsie actually removed every potted water plant from the pond (how? I have no idea.), carried the pots across the yard, removed all of the sand, and ate the plant inside. Every single plant.

My mother's Chinese Pug, Roxie, which is also my sister's dog, is a whole 'nother kettle of fish. This dog is supposedly potty trained, but not when she comes to my house, or if it has rained in the last three days. At my house, potty trained seems to mean squatting in the formal living room.

My older son's dogs, by comparison, really are no problem at all, unless there's a hurricane in the gulf. But sometimes we have those, you know. His dogs stay outside and bark non-stop for the entire length of his visit, but I can tune that out after a day or so. Fortunately, Hurricane Ike spared Corpus Christi, so I was spared a visit from James's dogs last weekend. But there'll come a day...

I like Tiffany's dog,Wally. Wally is the neurotic one, and he often behaves particularly badly around men, though due to years of therapy, he has come to tolerate me pretty well.

When she first brought him to see us , Wally, a beautiful, black, Labrador/Border Collie mix, would simply bark and growl at me. When Tiffany would go out with her friends, Wally would just lie on her bed, abandoned, and cry for hours at at a stretch. After a time, we finally got Wally to come lay up in our bed with us. One night, I was watching television in bed. Laura was lying next to me, already asleep, and Wally was at the foot of the bed, sitting quietly. The front door opened, and our youngest son, Travis,  came in. Wally's ears perked up, and he began to growl. Our bedroom is just off the kitchen, and Travis walked through the house and stood in our doorway. Wally stood up defensively and began to bark at this tall, unknown man in the doorway. I noticed the hairs on Wally's neck were straight up, and feared the worst. Now, Travis had played with Wally a dozen times, and knew that he just needed to make friends all over again. But Wally still hadn't recognized him, or maybe Wally was just having a bad night, I don't know.

Travis put out his hand, and took a step into the room. Wally, standing still as a statue, growled, yelped, and barked--almost as a single sound--and then peed all over our bed.

Then, Travis walked in, put his hand out for Wally to sniff, and the crisis was over, as soon as it started. Travis and Wally happily scampered away. I was left in the bed with the pee, and my wife, now startled awake by the commotion, still groggy. Laura, having entirely missed the peeing incident, just lay back down and closed her eyes. I sat there, the only person on the scene with knowledge of the entire situation. This seemed to perfectly summarize my entire state of being at that point in my life. I did the only thing I could do to cope: I rolled over and went to sleep.

 I know: I need to be more assertive about some of this.I'm working on that.

(Pictured above: Roxie, Wally & Bootsie, Wally)