NO PLACE LIKE HOME FOR A PLUS-SIZED PURSE DOG

Waggles has an undescended third testicle. This – or possibly the fact he resents the name and resembling Toto – made him bark at me. And bark. And barkandbarkandBARK. Even though he'd moved into my backyard.

But wee macho dogs can't appreciate such niceties. "Alpha wolf!" scream their instincts, not yet devolved down to drop-kick size like their frames. So Waggles barked. For months. Until the walkies.

The first time, I left him to the dog sitter (technically, I was only wrangling cats while the neighbors were away). Jeff grimaced: "he's a dirty, dirty dog. Are those ... dreadlocks? Maybe they should shave him and start over."

"Let's make him tired," I suggested, leashing big, butterscotchy Cora. "Then he won't bark!"

After 1.5 miles, predictably, the only tuckered critters were the humans.

So I called in re-enforcements: my cousin Jenny and her terrier Bradie. And we walked those dogs good and proper – Ballard, across the locks, then to Discovery Park and around its vast, rugged loop. Five miles at least. We mooched back to the house right as dusk and more snow descended. I unclipped the lead.

Waggles began ping-ponging off my leg. Barking.

At least it's with joy now.

I think.