As I sit listening to the sounds of the latest storm, after a week of being imprisoned in my home with rambunctious dogs, I wonder what else I can do to get my dogs to go outside. They hate the rain. We've all got cabin fever.

This is especially true for Ginger, my Jack Russell terrier (or terror) mix,  a.k.a. Princess Ginger Monster. She runs up and down the stairs, jumps on a chair in the living room, then dives across the room at the sofa, where she eventually plants herself on its back.

After a few minutes, Ginger goes to the front door and sniffs—loudly. Then, she looks at me.

"OK, fine. I get the message." I get up, go to the door, open it and say, "Go potty outside." Ginger, who normally gets so excited by the prospect of going for a walk that it takes me a minute to calm her down just to clip the leash on, or decides to dash out the door to start the walk without me, now looks at me like I'm crazy and walks away. "Whatever." I close the door and sit back down.

A few minutes later, she's at the door again. We repeat the exercise, and then we do it again. I realize that she has me trained, not the other way around.

Finally I look at the dog's raincoats hanging over the stairway railing. Should I make an attempt? Dare I try to put Ginger's coat on and take her outside? Or do I wait until she is about to burst?

The storm is so daunting that I decide it's not worth the battle with Ginger, since the last time we went out I had to drag her through rivers of water. I finally gave up and carried her home. Luckily, her raincoat served the purpose for which it was made—while mine, not so much.

Picking up and carrying a dog with drenched paws trumped wearing a raincoat and using an umbrella. Not to mention that there's a perfectly good dog door that she could've used if she really needed to go.

But wait, isn't the bigger question: "Why do I have a collection of raincoats for dogs?"  There's only one for me and four for Ginger. "How did that happen?"

Over the past decade, it seems that animal owners, myself included, have become increasingly devoted to their pets, and the business sector took note. Specialty pet products represent a high-growth industry in a recession. A recent Yahoo Finance article described this phenomenon as "humanizing our pets." Guilty as charged.

In the late 1990s, when I started Pugs 'N Pals of Southern California, a nonprofit dog rescue group, I included a dog costume contest in our annual Pugtoberfest fundraiser. It was rare to see a dog raincoat or costume. Most of the dressed-up dogs wore makeshift costumes or human T-shirts.

Now, dog costumes and apparel change with the seasons, have designer labels and are sold everywhere, not just at pet supply stores.

In fact, take a look at the recently remodeled RSM Target store. Where are the pet supplies? They have replaced the cleaning supplies at the front of the store, next to the registers. Take a walk down the aisles. Or maybe you don't have to, as dog-wear is often displayed on a high-profile end-cap.

Being a cost-conscious consumer, I tend to buy my dogs their winter coats in the spring, when they are on clearance. Same goes for their Halloween costumes—buy after the holiday. There's always next year.

Now I have my choice of four coats for Ginger. There's the short pink and white parka with the hood that covers her head, the long pink and brown coat that covers her whole body, the lavender plaid puffy vest that keeps her warm and dry, and the newest addition (my current favorite) the purple and pink parka with the hood trimmed in faux fur and elastic at the bottom.

After hours of sniffing at the door, bouncing off the furniture, jumping in my lap and bringing me toys to throw, Ginger finally decides it's bedtime. She bounds up the stairs and burrows herself firmly in the center of my bed, while the rest of us take advantage of a few moments of undisturbed quiet.

If you have rain gear for your dog, grab your camera, take a few pictures and send them to me at animalwrites@ariel.net.