How Not to Build a Doghouse

I am the proud owner of a talking dog. Well, anyway she thinks she can talk, even though what comes out of her mouth makes Scooby-Doo seem like a master of elocution.
Daisy was a "rescue" dog, rescued from the animal shelter when she was two years old, and she quickly made herself a part of our family. It wasn't long before we discovered that she could "talk". If she wants something and we don't pay attention to her staring (did I mention that she's part Border Collie?), she begins speaking with a mixture of whines and growls which become increasingly insistent until we are forced to figure out what she wants.

My wife casually suggested that we get a doghouse for the dog to use during those "special" times when we would be away for a long day and when the weather gets rainy as is often the case in the Pacific Northwest.

I had seen the "prefab" dog houses in various stores, and frankly was not impressed. No style. Flimsy construction. Cheap materials. In a surge of testosterone-induced mania I decided that I could build one better and cheaper myself. The first step would be to design one to fit the dog. A plan was drawn up for a structure that would compliment our house. When I showed the plans to the dog, I thought she said she liked the idea, but my wife just shook her head and mumbled something about an overactive imagination.

Then I had to decide where to put it-my wife was firm about wanting it out of the way, near the back entry to the house. The ground, of course, was too uneven to support the structure that was taking shape in my fevered brain, so I built a small patio out of concrete paving stones that would be large enough to serve as the base. Then I began assembling materials: 2x4's, plywood, tar paper, nails, roofing shingles, siding etc. I also had to get together the necessary tools: circular saw, hand saw, finishing saw, coping saw, hammer, machinists square, framing square, steel tape, carpenter's rule etc. My wife, I noticed, had begun spending time looking through the yellow pages under the headings of psychiatrists and sanatoria.

The dog kept telling me to go for it. So now, after two and one-half years of a labor that one can at best call misguided, the last pieces of siding have been nailed in place and the structure is ready for a move-in. The dog refuses to go inside-something about an interior decorator and adding another level. I told my wife what the dog wanted, but that I had refused to listen to such a request. She just gave me a sad smile and pulled out the yellow pages.