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I think I must have had a boxer in my life every year since 1958, so I don't consider myself a complete novice, but George has got me well and truly beat.

I collected him from Acorn Bank on 31st December 2000, a poor thin little lad with a sad black face. He had been used as a stud dog for 5 years and kept outside so I was expecting a little trouble when introducing him to a normal home with central heating, settees, and duvets. My main worry was my bitch Gemma, who thinks the only good dog is a dead dog, and had only just managed to live peacefully with my lovely old Angus who had been put to sleep a month before. Those who knew him will agree that he was certainly no saint, but he did accept that "Bitches rule OK" She took one look and hated George on sight, but he was more than a match for her and gave as good as he got.

Gemma was not impressed and nursed a great indignation in her heart. She had always been able to manage Angus, who treated her with a great deal of caution and respect, and in return she had tolerated him quite well - especially when he could be persuaded to give up his dinner and his favourite toys. Anyway, Angus had a nice white blaze on his face, white socks and a white chest, he was big and strong and really quite nice looking! Poor George has, it has to be admitted, a rather gloomy face: all black. No white socks, no white chest, and is really rather a puny specimen all round, standing the same height as Gemma at the shoulder - and about a third of her width!! And, to make things worse, he would not give up his dinner. I suppose she felt it was a bit like being left by George Clooney and getting Ken Dodd instead - except George can't sing.

Then the trouble with George started - I am ashamed to say it took me quite a while to notice. First, the living room curtains didn't hang right. They seemed a bit stiff. They were stiff- with dried pee! I don't see much without my glasses as I am generally too vain to wear them, but then I noticed the valance round the bed, the dining room curtains, the end of the settee, the leather chair, the banister rails on the stairs - all adorned with dried pee! Never wet pee. Even my brand new cashmere cardigan hanging over the back of a chair! It is never ever done when anyone is looking. When you think about it, he must be quite clever to always time it right. This suggests to me that he knows that I would be unlikely to approve of his leaky activities. Pointing to a newly discovered dried piddle, expressing deep displeasure and escorting him outside only produced a look of mild confusion coupled with innocence. Sorry to be indelicate, but it is never a full gush - only a few drops each time - so it is easy to miss and by the time I get round to noticing it is probably several goes later! My own scenting skills are not particularly well developed, but no visitor has ever remarked that my living room smells like a public "gents" but then I only know very polite (or cowardly) people.

This is clearly only scent-marking. Is he still trying to impress Gemma, or is it the fact that he was a stud dog in an earlier life and it is a habit he got into at that time? If so, how to I persuade him to perform in a more appropriate place?

Then there is his habit of scraping up with his back feet after a pee in the garden. All male dogs do this to some degree, but George would win an Olympic event for how far you can dispatch one clod of earth - or several on a good day. Now folks, I love my garden. I accept that you can never have an Alan Titchmarsh job if you have a dog, but I have left the great majority in the middle down to lawn so the boxers can run about, play football, and generally act the clown (which is why we love them so much) but I have never quite experienced the gusto with which at least a hundredweight of earth and tufts of grass can be distributed - always in the direction of some poor unsuspecting human who is trying to get a suntan or eat their lunch.

There is nothing quite so off putting as half a pound of earth landing in your salad complete with worm. The grass round the edges of the lawn, against the trees, where most of the peeing activity is done, has completely gone this winter and there are deep ravines where some poor bit of lawn got extra attention.

Is he still trying to win Gemma's heart by demonstrating what a macho boy he is, thinking she will be unable to resist his lovely body perfume as she reclines on the sofa or strolls past the curtains? Does he think she measures the incredible distance his clods of earth can travel? I wonder. Or is it that neither Gemma nor the celibate life he now leads hold little charm for him, and he lives in hope of a visiting bitch, complete with puppy making equipment, one day beating a path to his ready perfumed patch?

The Vet says there is nothing I can do about it other than castrate poor George. Horrors! It's the only really impressive bit of equipment he's got!!! I don't want to do such a thing unless I absolutely have to for medical reasons. You can't just chop bits off a dog - at least I don't want to. I would rather explore other solutions, if there are any out there? Anyone any ideas? My garden, my washing machine and I would be most grateful. Don't know about George though - he seems to me to be quite satisfied with the status quo and is a boxer who is inordinately pleased with himself - so you see he is a bit like George Clooney after all. Gemma please note.

Sue Fox