Tell me about the rabbits, George.

Most of you know by now that we have two dogs. Sarge, an eight-pound Yorkie, we purchased the day before we got married. Beau, the 75-pound Bouvier puppy, thundered into our lives about four months ago. Anyone who has spent time with me knows which dog is my favorite - the one who doesn't shed great bales of hair, chew my house to pieces and poop right in front of the mower when I'm cutting the grass. (Sarge, in other words, is my favorite.)

Beau has unleashed a series of indignities on us since we got him. When we were getting ready to move, Tony decided he wanted - no, deserved! - a big dog. A manly dog. A dog all his own. Never mind the fact that he picked out Sarge, conned me into getting him and pampered him way more than I ever did. No, he wanted a big dog that he wasn't embarrassed to take for walks. So, we did some research and came up with the Bouvier, a magnificent creature with intellect, a proud heritage and a low-shedder with a sweet personality. Oh, and a $600 price tag, thank you very much. Add the plane ticket and I could have a Chanel suit for what this dog cost us just to procure, let alone the maintenance costs of the giant furball. (Let's just put it out there right now that big dogs are not lower-maintenance than little ones. We've spent twice as much on vet bills for Beau in three months than we ever have on Sarge.)

One of the things they warn you about with Bouviers is how much they fart. Now, I read that with a chuckle and thought, how funny! Sometimes Sarge lets out a tiny little poot and it's adorable. Not so with Beau. He farts in a room and moments later, you see people running out like the Japanese escaping from Godzilla, scarves held over noses, pushing each other out of the way to escape the toxic fumes. And don't let him sneak one in while you are sleeping. We had to put in an extra carbon-monoxide detector just to protect ourselves.

One of the things they don't warn you about is the copious shedding. I'm not sure if it is because he's losing his puppy coat or if the summer heat is getting to him, but everywhere you look in our house, you'll see giant tumbleweeds of fur rolling by. With Sarge, we were spoiled. Yorkies don't really shed at all, even when you brush them. Beau sheds explosively and can fill a dog brush four or five times in one brushing session. I find at least one dog hair in every meal I eat at home, which horrifies someone as squeamish as I am.

Tony sold me on a big dog by saying he would be great for home protection. What better deterrent could we have than a giant, menacing, black dog? Well, perhaps a giant, menacing black dog who doesn't RUN AWAY FROM EVERYONE IN TERROR. It's true. Beau is big, he has a ferocious bark, giant scary white teeth, and is the biggest fraidey-cat on the planet. Anyone new comes toward him, he'll bark like crazy and then take off in the other direction. Between Sarge thinking he's a killer and Beau running scared, anyone attacking the house or us would be laughing so hard, our best line of defense is to hit them when they are doubled over in mirth.

Beau's destructiveness is the one thing he has in common with Sarge. (Well, that and the desire to eat so much grass you puke.) Whereas Sarge spent his puppyhood destroying expensive, irreplaceable shoes (I miss you, hot-pink faux-croc Tommy Hilfiger stilettos), Beau has gone to work on the more expensive parts of our house. Our brand-new house. Our house where everything was perfect until Captain Chew moved in. So far, he's eaten the garage steps, which isn't that big a deal, and now has started on the entryway into the house, which is a HUGE deal. Our cream-colored wood paneling has been chewed, splintered, scratched and pooped back out in massive proportions. I'm not even sure we can fix it with sandpaper and paint. We might have to buy putty to fill the crevices he's created. IN ONE AFTERNOON. One unsupervised afternoon of laying in front of our front door, chewing on a freaking wall. Sigh.

Now, to read this, you might think I don't love Beau. You'd be right. Sarge is my baby. Beau is my much-dumber stepchild who wrecks my car and gets arrested for selling drugs at school. I tolerate him, I pet him, I work hard at loving him, but at the end of the day, it just isn't the same. Maybe in six more months, when he's grown out of his more annoying habits and it's cold enough that he stops shedding, I'll discover some part of his personality that I find redeeming. Until then, though, I'll continue to mow over poop-piles the size of my car, pick dog-hair from my salad and run in terror every time he gets that farty look on his face.