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Right off the top, I'll make quite clear that I'm not a dog person. I'm a cat person. You don't have to walk them and they can be on their own for a weekend without chewing up the new sofa. But my wife thought we needed a dog—because we lived in a "ripe for ripping the rich folk off" golf club community, she said. But I know it was really because Libby next door got an Irish Setter, so naturally we had to have a Wolfhound.

Well, Wolfhounds are high maintenance, and I made quite clear to my wife from the get go that this was her dog. In retaliation, she decided that the dog would substitute for me everywhere except in her vagina. She still made quite clear that my cock was top dog in that kennel.

And when Angie gets involved in a project, she goes the whole distance.

This is just a preamble to bringing the dog groomer on the scene. Which is what Angie did two sessions into taking Grrr (her name for the dog, not mine) to an expensive dog obedience and grooming "college." After listening to all of the introductions on how to acclimate our high-strung purebred to his home environment (presumably so he doesn't start gifting us with pungent symbols of dissatisfaction and disdain on the floor of the front foyer), Angie decided that our home had to be evaluated as to its suitability to Grrr's needs and for advice on how to bring our 4,000-square foot, $2 million hovel up to dog code. So, she paid the extra fee for the dog groomer to make a home visit and ...

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