I wish Ollie the Pug were a better watchdog. What a comfort that would be.

When it comes to watchdog duties, Ollie's greatest handicap is size. He weighs 25 pounds. That's good for a pug. But not so good when a hulking intruder with a crowbar is lurching about in your hallway.

Ollie is roughly the shape and size of a small pig. In fact, my wife's nickname for him is "Pig." But a real pig would be far more helpful in the watchdog department. For one thing, pigs are capable of desperate acts of feral aggression, as I once discovered at the Saanich Fair.

Boy, if I were a burglar encountering a pig during a break-in, I'd make like Donovan Bailey at the 1996 Olympics. And there's an added bonus -- a sort of subtext -- to owning a watch-pig. Burglars will think: "Hey, if this guy owns a pig, who knows what other dangerous animals are in the house? Like maybe a super-crazy chimp."

Another disqualification for Ollie's watchdog career is his super-affability. If he sees anyone, he'll try to run over and make friends. This makes walking Ollie a challenge, as he's always straining to cross traffic-clogged streets to greet passing pedestrians.

If a stranger knocks on our door he'll bark once or twice. But these barks are small and yelpy. And they're merely a prelude to Ollie running over -- tail and bottom wagging furiously -- to lick the hand of any potential Jeffrey Dahmer plotting to murder yours truly.

If I seem overly concerned about home invasions, it's because a burglar once slipped into our house at night through faulty french doors. He stole my wallet and my wife's purse as we slept.

Afterwards, I purchased a Louisville Slugger and kept it under the bed. This seemed a good idea until my wife pointed out that if I tried wielding my Louisville Slugger, the intruder would simply seize it and commence pummelling me.

I've also obtained, via illicit means, a small canister of mace. My wife tells me that, in the event of a break-in, I'll likely spray myself in the eyes, thus rendering myself temporarily blind. Still, it makes me feel better, having that mace. Not to mention the Louisville Slugger.

We also have an alarm system, which routinely sends false alarms, bringing exasperated policemen to our door. Before that, I tried to save money by buying a mail-order gizmo. It is, essentially, an electronic speaker that's supposed to make loud barking sounds to ward off intruders. The picture on the box shows a masked villain fleeing from a ferocious Doberman pinscher. This image gladdened my heart.

"What's that?" my wife said when it arrived.

"Dog alarm. You know, for burglars."

"Ha," she said.

"Check out the picture on the box. Just you watch."

When I tried it, one could indeed hear a Doberman pinscher barking. However, it sounded as if it was several miles away. Maybe in a neighbouring town. Not only that, the soft barking was fuzzy and scratchy. It sounded like the very first primitive recordings, the ones predating Edison's phonograph, but not as loud.

I phoned the company that sold me the gizmo. It took 20 minutes to get through. "This thing won't scare away intruders. It's not loud enough," I told the receptionist.

"Check the box," she said. "It says, 'For amusement purposes only.' "

"Amusement? But what about intruders?"

"For your amusement only," she said. "Have a good day and enjoy your barking dog box."

So I've decided to work one-on-one with Ollie to improve his bark. My method is as follows: I bark, and then Ollie gets a liver treat if he follows suit. Then I start barking louder and louder, with him duplicating the feat.

So far it has just been me barking, with Ollie the Pug gazing at me blankly, wondering why I don't hand over the stupid liver treat. But I just figure it's a matter of time.

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achamberlain@tc.canwest.com