"She needs a companion," my husband said, "so she'll stop pestering us so much."
"Well, it's my turn to pick the next dog," I said.
"I think we should get something big," he said.
"Really big," I replied.
"Yeah. We should get a really cool dog."
"Super cool, with a capital I for Impressive."

When I called the seller and asked how big she was, he told me, "Put it this way, if she were standing in your kitchen, she could put her head in the sink."
"Do you think she'll fit in the back of my hatchback?" I asked.
"Oh sure. She loves car rides."

The shocks dropped three inches as the Great Dane leapt into the back of the car, her huge body reaching from the rear window to the front seat. We were definitely impressed. Wild Dog was impressed, too. She spent the first week hiding behind the couch, and the lively Monster Dog couldn't understand why the little furry thing wedged between the furniture and the wall wouldn't come out and play.

We ate dinner with the monster's nose in our faces. We awoke to a 120-pound monster jumping on our chests to go outside. We washed the dishes religiously every night because, yes, the dog could put her head in the kitchen sink.

Sometimes we felt just as intimidated as the little dog by the gargantuan canine who took over our home. When she adopted the loveseat as her personal bed, we let her have it. We didn't complain when she drank out of the toilet and left water and drool on the seat. And when it came time to clip her claws, neither of us had the nerve to force her to do anything she didn't want to do.

But it didn't take long for us to realize Angel was just like any other dog, only bigger. When she got into the garbage, she didn't have to stand on her back legs to do it. When she wagged her tail, it wasn't a matter of dusting off the coffee table; she wiped out an entire row of plant stands. When she laid on the loveseat, she didn't wear out the cushions, she broke the springs.

After five months, I wasn't surprised she still didn't know her real name, for every time the drool would hang four inches from her flews we called her Hooch. When we hauled in the bags of dog food, we called her Beethoven. And when she tried to be a lap dog, we called her Marmaduke. But it was enough time for us to adjust to having a gentle giant who broke our toes when she stepped on our feet. Even Wild Dog, who is much too hyper to be confined underneath a couch for any length of time, had decided she liked having a monster for a playmate.

And when the TV sitcoms became too boring to bear, we'd turn off the tube and watch the dogs play; little dog being thrown all over the house in a mismatched game of tug-of-war, and big dog whirling about, unable to catch the quick little devil that nipped her in the heels.

"Isn't it nice how they occupy each other?" my husband asked as he looked down at his lap. Not a single doggy toy had been deposited there.