I live in Animal House.

Our dog groomer moved away a while ago and Bonnie began clipping the dogs herself. Quicker than you can say buzz cut our dogs were exceedingly naked and shorn like sheep at a Marine induction center. They had to wear clothing for the first week after a haircut. But since then my spouse has gotten much better at this grooming thing, perfecting the Schnauzer cut—feathered legs, clipped mustache, square beard, shaved sides and long eyebrows. Our boys could model for Canine Klein.

Soon, friends with Schnauzers started to drop off their pooches at the house for haircuts. Occasionally, brave friends with other breeds asked Bonnie to prune their pooches too, and it’s amazing how fast Bonnie could turn almost any breed into faux Schnauzers. The AKC will soon be registering the Schnorkie, Schmaltese and Schmutt.

Last weekend was particularly busy here at Schnauzerhaven. We had houseguests, non-stop events and the usual summer craziness going on. On Friday morning, as we were having coffee, we saw a weird shadowy thing bouncing off the walls in the sunroom and our dogs plastered against the sliding glass door like Garfield on car window suction cups.

One of our houseguests investigated. "Oh my, It’s a bird, it’s stuck in here," she said, at which point she started trying to shoo the panicked creature out the door. Startled, the bird dive bombed her head and there she was, barricaded in the sunroom channeling Tippi Hedren in The Birds.

I knew better than to inject myself into the pursuit, so I summoned my spouse. She entered our new aviary and started to pursue the bird, too, which prompted the question "how many lesbians does it take to…." It was all very Keystone Kops, with the bird and its pursuers bouncing off the walls.

Finally, Bonnie coaxed the interloper onto her outstretched arm and escorted the bird outside. The dogs, crestfallen, couldn’t believe their bad luck.

As we left the house for an afternoon downtown, happy hour with the gals at Cloud 9 and a lovely dinner out, our pups were left at home enjoying their last hours of solitude. The following day we would be taking in two more Schnauzers for doggy day care.

Yes, we sometimes provide daily or overnight lodging for non-shedding pooches. Not only are we getting a reputation for having a canine safe house, but sometimes I think somebody posted us on Doggie Hotels.com. Let’s face it, we do offer five biscuit lodging with amenities like spa service and, if Bonnie or I put our java mugs down to get dressed or visit the library, there’s in-room coffee. Fortunately they do not need high speed internet access or a complimentary USA Today.

Unfortunately, we’d forgotten to inform our human guests about the two additional dogs that would be checking in. They awoke to a terrible storm and a pack of howling animals. Discovering that the two household Schnauzers had, during the night, multiplied, they quickly considered giving up martinis.

I assured everyone that the double vision was not alcohol induced and we set about preparing breakfast. We’d just popped the champagne cork for the Mimosas when the phone rang. "Is Bonnie there?"

It seems that a dog visiting friends down the street had gone under their deck and was refusing to come out. Driving rain continued unabated and it was worrisome. "They need a dog whisperer," I said.

So Bonnie threw on her raincoat and headed for the next animal emergency. Sure enough a friend’s Beagle (If Bonnie clipped it, would it be a Schneagle?) was entrenched in the mud under the deck. I bet Bonnie wished she’d kept that bird as bait. Unable to succeed through her powers of persuasion, she resorted to crawling, on her belly, under the deck for the rescue. Three gay men stood watching, squirming at the thought of the muddy and perhaps varmint filled mess Bonnie was willing to crawl in.

With her mission accomplished, our drenched and mud-caked animal rescue expert arrived home to learn that our two visiting Schnauzers would not be picked up until late that night, having requested, yes, a late checkout. So it was back to cooking breakfast.

And in our house, cooking is a problem for many reasons, one of which is the obvious fact that we rarely do it. But perhaps the real reason is that our dogs are terrified when we cook. How’s that for a culinary reference?

Once, back in their puppyhood, I was broiling chicken wings and the tips started to blacken and sizzle, setting off the smoke alarm. Well, you’d think Zambelli had detonated firecrackers under those Schnauzers’ butts. The dogs fled to the back of the bedroom closet, holed up there, shaking, for two hours. Now I’m sure the sound of the smoke detector hurt their sensitive ears, but I also think they were being little canine drama queens. Regardless, I tried never to let that happen again.

But from that moment on, every time we’d turn on the oven, stove or microwave, my dogs trembled, drooled and hyperventilated. They carry on like that if we prepare anything from a turkey dinner to a pop tart.

We tried behavior modification techniques, luring the dogs toward the stove by offering them a taste of whatever was in or on the offending kitchen appliance. This worked pretty well, as they no longer ran from the room. They’d just hang around drooling and panting until we gave them a taste of chicken or fish, and then they’d run for the hills with flashbacks.

I actually think we were beginning to make progress putting their childhood smoke detector abuse behind them when it happened again. Negligently tended pork chops. The damn smoke detector went off and our dogs have not trusted us in the kitchen since.

So we were cooking scrambled eggs and my houseguests asked, "What’s the matter with the dogs? They’re shaking."

"We’re cooking," I said.

Face it, it’s not encouraging for guests invited for a meal to see your dogs hiding under the coffee table shaking, panting and drooling because you are cooking.

I was explaining the genesis of their post-traumatic stress syndrome to our wary guests when the phone rang. It was friends asking if we’d mind watching their little darling the next day. Later, we got yet another booking.

So here it is Monday night, I’m finishing up this column, and the door bell rings. It’s the parents of the Schnorkie, coming to fetch their best friend. That left one Schmaltese with a late checkout, a Schnauzer with a salon appointment for Tuesday and us, eating carry-in food and wondering if we should re-carpet or just surrender and tile the living room.

Later this week we have an overnight boarder, setting up a three-dog night.

We live in Animal House. We love it. Bring on the Schnocker Spaniels.