The other day, in the middle of Christmas shopping at the mall, I made a comment to my wife about how ridiculous it was that, with five kids and each other, we had to shop for presents for seven people in just a couple of weeks. I said it was overwhelming. My 9-year-old twin daughters looked at me in shock.

"Seven?" they said. "You mean eight!"

I stared at them for a moment, wondering whether I needed to have a serious sit-down with their math teacher. They cleared it up for me.

"You forgot about Harry, Daddy!" they said, referring to our mangy little West Highland terrier.

I grimaced. Harry and I tolerate each other, but that's about it. He spends most of our time together in the evenings aggressively trying to edge me out of position and snuggle up to my wife (his true love), something he knows will drive me away.

And his rather hearty way of treating our pillows in a romantic manner (he uses them as a substitute for my wife) means that I spend a lot of time looking for a spot on the couch that doesn't smell like Harry. Although I've never actually smelled one, I'm pretty sure his odor could be described as that of a decomposing, deceased goat.

Harry puts up with me mostly because he knows I'm a sloppy eater, and he can count on me to drop a fair number of crumbs every time I sit down to eat.

I put up with him because I've done the math. If it came to a "Survivor"-like family vote with me up against Harry, they'd be snuffing out my torch without a second thought.

I tried to convince my daughters that Harry had no idea what Christmas was and didn't expect presents. My wife and daughters reacted as if I'd suggested returning him to the animal shelter in the middle of the night, yanking off his dog tags and tying his leash to the front door. (I would never suggest that, but a man can dream.)

Since then, knowing how much the idea of doggie Christmas gifts bugs me, my wife has been clipping out articles and ads about seasonal presents for dogs and leaving them on my desk. Turns out my wife and daughters are not alone. Last year, pet-crazed Americans spent $8.4 billion on gifts for Fido.

One ad, for a water bottle you can share with your dog, made me gag. At the top, it has a little water dish with a straw on the side, so you and your canine can both drink at once. The company helpfully pointed out that since dogs can't talk, the best way to find out if your pooch is parched is to pinch it and see how quickly the skin snaps back into place.

As far as I'm concerned, pinching your dog is also a great way to find out how sharp his teeth are.

One ad was for a treadmill that cost more than $1,000, something I think might be a good idea if you could generate electricity with it.

Another company has come up with 12 different colors of nail polish, and another has hot oil treatments for dogs in scents like "Babylonian Lavender" and "African Sage Oil." I find this particularly stupid, because Harry's weird smells are exactly why I can't find any place to sit in our living room.

Some of this has to do with celebrities like Paris Hilton who carry around little frou-frou dogs in their purses, wearing them like jewelry. One of the stores for young girls at the mall has a whole section of sequined dog bags, dog jewelry and even little plastic sequined tiaras for pampered pooch princesses.

My daughters came upon the dog fashion department and immediately went into earnest wide-eyed waif mode, oohing and awing and trying to convince me that Harry needed a jacket and booties for those winter talks to the bus stop, or maybe a nice sweater.

I looked at my daughters, so excited at the idea of dressing up our mangy mutt for the holidays. I considered telling them no, reminding them that Harry needed flea treatment, not haute couture. But then I thought of the whole "Survivor" thing.

"Maybe a set of booties," I growled. "But no sweaters and no tiaras!"