The day after Shaq entered our realm, I went to San Francisco. The two events had nothing to do with each other. But we got Shaq while I was in the middle of my epic book tour, so I missed his first week with the family.

That afternoon, I got a phone call.

"I don't know if I want Shaq," Regina said.

"You begged me for him--for weeks," I said.

"I know," she said. "And now I feel guilty. He's nothing like Hercules."

"Of course he's nothing like Hercules," I said. "He's a different dog."

"What are we doing?" she said. "I don't know what we're doing anymore."

"Woman," I said. "You are driving me crazy."

Every day, the panic subsided a little. Regina started saying things like "Shaq is a good boy," and I knew we were going to keep him. One theme did persist, however.

"Oh my God," she said. "Shaq has the worst farts ever."

"OK, dear," I said, basically dismissing her. Regina has always been a little extra-sensitive when it comes to matters olfactory. I can't begin to enumerate the times I've been forced to sniff a blanket, or a bedsheet, or a rug, for the faintest whiff of urine, vomit, or feces. This has led Elijah to believe that animals are always attempting to poop in his bed.

I landed at Burbank Airport at 10 PM on a Saturday. Regina let Elijah stay up past his bedtime so he could pick me up. The dogs came along as well. They picked me up curbside. I got in the car and started spreading the kisses around.

Then I took a whiff. The air in the car smelled like regurgitated grass inside the belly of a rotting rodent corpse.

"Man," I said. "You weren't kidding about the farts."

When I got home, I realized that there had been changes. In addition to Shaq's shiny-metal-in-the-shape-of-diamond-studded collar, he had a new retractable leash. Hercules also had a new leash. Dog beds had been arranged about the house, as Regina had determined that Shaq was too big to sleep in bed with us. There were also about a half-dozen new toys. Unlike Hercules, who enjoys spending the day sitting on the couch like a molten, morse lump of coal, Shaq is a player. Shaq tore apart Herc's sad little stuffed animals within two days. Hard rubber and rope is the new norm.

Also, there was a large bottle of air-freshener on the dining room table. This was necessary to help counter the seemingly incessant tell-tale hiss that could be heard out of Shaq's ass at nearly all times.

Shaq obeyed. He followed me around sweetly. He gave kisses and asked to have his belly rubbed. But man, did he stink.

Regina took measures. She bought new dog food. Then she began mixing that dog food with yogurt because the enzymes in yogurt help with digestion. Now we were feeding yogurt to our dogs. Though I don't eat yogurt myself, part of a lifelong aversion to foods that are "white and creamy," my long-term efforts to be "cool" faded further and further into the distance.

One afternoon, Elijah asked me,

"Daddy, what's Shaq's middle name?"

"Eel," I said.

"NO!"

"Yes, it is."

"His name is Shaq Eel?"

"Uh-huh."

He ran into the other room, shouting "Shaq Eel! Shaq Eel! Shaq Eel!"

Only one Shaq-related issue remained. Regina and I discussed it last night.

"You know," she said. "I was thinking about the guy who posted on your blog saying that you can't name your dog after an L.A. Laker."

"Good point," I said. "The Lakers are evil."

"Of course they are," she said. "So why not change Shaq's name to Nash?"

"Or Amare," I said.

"Nash kind of sounds like Shaq," she said. "Watch this."

She said, in her dog-calling voice, "Come here, Nash! Come here, boy!"

Shaq/Nash came running.

"All right," I said. "His name is Nash."

But then when I woke up this morning, Elijah was running around, saying "Shaq Eel! Shaq Eel! Shaq Eeeeeeeeeeeel!"

"His name is Nash now," I said.

"No, it's not," said Elijah.

Since Alternadad came out, people frequently have asked me: If you're so rock-n-roll, what can Elijah do in the future to piss you off? And now I have the answer. He can become a Lakers fan.

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