A different kind of responsibility

In lieu of a child, we got a dog.

The timing seemed right. We own our first house, our schedules have slowed and we're overwhelmed with the desire to spend mass amounts of cash at PetsMart.

The Other Half and I grew up with dogs. We became cat people for our busy decade of marriage because cats don't really need us. Our cat is like that surly roommate from college -- we don't share any interests, she never wants to hang out, but we get stuck cleaning up her crap.

So enter Stewie, obtained from a dachshund rescue farm in Lakeland, Fla. He's 7 months old and has red hair like Mommy.

Before we picked him, the dachshund rescuer paraded the saddest assortment of animals in history in front of us.

"This is Double D," she said, handing me a limp dog in a ratty towel. "He's 13 years old. There wouldn't be any adoption fee."

Double D had a bit of an odor problem and looked like he might not survive the walk out to the car. "Uh, we were hoping for a dog that would be with us for a while," I said.

She picked up another one. "This is Casey," she said. "She's a little overweight but very friendly."

Hey, I thought, that same description would fit me! It seemed meant to be ... until Casey bit a chunk out of my thumb.

Meanwhile, Stewie climbed up on Mr. Half's lap and fell asleep. He'd been rolling in cow manure and had breath that would stop a pack of rhinos, but Mr. Half was sold.

"Is he housebroken?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," the rescuer said.

For future reference, potential dog adopters, that means no. The first couple of days, I tirelessly walked Stewie around the yard and up and down the street, only to have him come in and immediately pee on the same throw rug. At least it had a rubber bottom and was machine washable.

Do you remember that toy from the 1980s, My Puppy Puddles? The jingle went, "My Puppy Puddles, you can watch him drink his water. My Puppy Puddles only puddles where he oughter." You gave him water, squeezed his collar and the water came out.

I've been thinking about that a lot lately. That must be the worst toy concept ever. Why didn't they just call it "I Clean Up Dog Urine"?

Anyway, after a week of intense training, Stewie is housebroken, and my I.Q. has dropped 10 points. My neighbors think I'm insane. At least five times a day, I'm walking up and down the street with a little dog in tow, yelling, "GOOD STEWIE PEE-PEE OUTSIDE! GOOD STEWIE PEE-PEE!"

But the best part is when he does No. 2 on their lawns. They stand there watching the process, then watching me clean up the results with newspaper bags. It's very humiliating.

I'm spending more time on Stewie's meals than my own. While I pop a Lean Cuisine into the microwave, he gets dry food, wet food and just a dash of special oil for his coat. Then there's the doggie mouthwash for his water dish and the breath-cleansing treats.

He gets sprayed with cologne and brushed every day. His feet are cleaned off with doggie wipes after every walk.

In some ways, it's exhausting.

But at night, a tiny, clean dog with fresh breath snuggles in between The Other Half and me, and I forget about those newspaper bags.