EARLY EVERY MORNING our girls - our dogs, that is - begin barking like crazy. I'm not alarmed. I'm well acquainted with the intruder. He wears a mangy coat, ambles down the driveway with a "cock of the walk" attitude, and deposits whatever he had for supper last night on our front lawn. He's the neighbourhood dog. I've never discovered just who owns the little stinker, but there was a time he nearly drove me crazy. When he first appeared, I would leap out of bed, dash downstairs and release the hounds. By the time the girls were out, he had already marked my truck, soiled the lawn and hit the road. My wife, Jackie, friend to the furry and four-legged, would say, "Leave the poor thing alone, Mark. It's just being friendly." "Yeah, Dad," our son, Karl, would chime in. "Give it a rest!" "Not on my watch," I'd bark, alpha male ego bristling. So the challenge was on. First, I set out dog food spiked with cayenne. I thought hot sauce would send him scampering off for good. But the mutt scarfed down the flaming treat without even a burp. He did leave a present, though. Arrrrrgh! Next I lined up six rat-traps baited with sausage. Nothing like a good nose-whacking to say "go home." But by some Darwinian fluke, the mutant mongrel managed to spring the traps with a stick. I was livid. This was war! I devised a scheme so foolproof, so diabolical, I couldn't stop chuckling to myself. That night, while the family slept, I slipped out of bed, filled a paper bag with ripe wieners, and placed it on the lawn below the guest room window. Back inside, I opened that same window just wide enough to poke something through. Then I turned out the lights and slipped under the covers. As cold steel caressed my leg, I whispered, "It won't be long now, my pretty." That's when I knew I'd lost it. That and the theme song from Mission Impossible rattling around in my brain. Near dawn, my nemesis returned. Heart pounding, I pulled out the BB gun and edged to the windowsill. There was Mr. Mangy Coat I'll Dump On Your Lawn, wolfing down the bait. I got his furry backside in my sights, took a breath, and gently squeezed the trig- - the bedroom light snapped on! As I spun around in surprise, the gun went off, pellets ricocheting off the walls and just missing Jackie standing wide-eyed by the door. "ARE YOU INSANE? You almost killed me. Give me that thing! Mother was right, you are a nutcase." Sheepishly, I surrendered my weapon, but not before glancing out the window to watch that mutt pee on my truck before loping off into the dark, wieners dangling from its matted maw. I'm through hunting big game. Sure, the adrenaline still kicks in at 6 a.m. But I try to ignore it. The only thing I ever bag sits on the end of a shovel, courtesy of Mr. You-Know-Who - MARK BEHREND