Apparently, we have a new dog in the house.

The other day, our daughter Nina announced that she’d adopted a pug named Victoria.

Oh, really? I asked.

Yes, she said, Victoria’s been living with us for weeks.

This was news to me.

Granted, I’m not the most observant person in the world, but I do work at home. I also happen to, uh, live at home, and there’s been no sign of a new dog anywhere.

Brooke, our basset hound, who is way more observant than I am, at least in the scent department, hasn’t noticed a new dog either. She’s been spending her days in the usual way, snoozing and absorbing rubs, with brief stops at the food bowl. The Australian Open has been a distraction for her, since she’s had to share the couch with me more than usual. But as distractions go, it’s been minor, certainly not enough of one to sneak a pug past her.

So I asked Nina if I could meet this new dog.

She said, Sure, and opened up her laptop.

Victoria, it seems, is a virtual pug. A very convincing virtual pug, to be sure, who needs to be fed and watered and played with. Even treated for fleas from time to time. But a pixelated pug, nonetheless.

Thank goodness.

I’m not a huge dog person, so it’s lucky for me that Brooke the basset hound is just about as low impact as a dog can be. She’s extremely low energy. Her favorite activity is a vigorous, long-distance nap. Followed by a quick stretch, a tongue curl or two, and a series of warm-down naps. She’s a great guard dog. As soon as a stranger enters the room, she rolls aggressively over and presents her belly, growling with ferocious anticipation. She’s incredibly loyal, provided there’s no one else around who’s willing to give her a hot dog bun. In which case, all bets are off.

She’s wrinkly. She’s lovable. Her breath stinks. She’s reliably happy to see us.

Well, that’s three out of four in the plus column.

I wasn’t crazy about the idea of adding a dog to the family. But eventually, in the face of the kind of relentless lobbying that’s usually confined to the halls of Congress, I relented.

I suppose I had an inflated idea of a dog’s impact on my life. I was worried that there’d be early morning feedings, mountains of poop, dog hair all over the place, barking, health worries, kennel worries. Basically, that we’d have all of the responsibilities of an eternal child, without being able to lean on the dog in our old age.

From the beginning, Shana promised to take care of the nitty gritty, and, as always, she’s been true to her word.

Still. I’m with the dog day and night. That’s a lot of muzzle time. When she’s out back, taking a break from her exhausting afternoon of lounging, there will often be barking. Incredibly loud, persistent, moronic, deep-throated, endless barking. The kind of barking that erases work from the mind.

I can’t eat a pretzel without being haunted by her enormous, eternally hungry eyes. Pretzel? What am I saying? I can’t eat anything without her knowing about it. I’ll be tip-toeing around the kitchen in thick socks, opening only the cabinets with extremely quiet hinges, and somehow she’ll rouse herself from a comatose sleep and come clip-clopping down the stairs to find out (a.) what I’m eating, and (b.) whether there’s any for her.

Going to the bathroom in the middle of the night has become a special-op worthy of the Army Rangers. Woe unto him who waketh the beast before dawn, for lo, the beast will needeth her breakfast, or, at the very leasteth, a snack, followed verily by lots of rubs and being let out back-eth.

Did I mention the foul breath?

But for all that, she makes us happy. She forces the rest of us to squeeze together on the sofa so that she can luxuriate in style. But it’s nice to squeeze together. She makes us feel like a pack.

I’d like to see a virtual pug do that.

This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 04 February 2010

For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com