How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith. He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls, such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When--really--the question should be: "How can I help your dog to pee on my tulips?" And: "What can I get for you?" And: "Can I take this little guy off your hands for an hour, or several days?"

-Your partner will ask: "Why do you think he's whining this morning?" Consider the question at length; say, "Maybe it's growing pains." Your partner will say: "Maybe he needs to go poopie." And what you'll hear, via subtext, is: "Take him out now, you puddle of sloth. Take him out to go poopie." Choose to ignore this subtext. Instead, say: "Maybe the whining is an expression of existential dread. It's Monday. I'm sure he feels anxious about the work week." And then allow the problem to go unresolved; hope that a host of distractions will somehow erase the memory of it, as if such memories are ever fully erased.

-Write songs for your puppy. To the tune of the Canadian National Anthem: "Good morning, Salvador! You are a cute little boy! We love you, Salvador! You are a...cute...little....boy!!!" Roll the r's, as if you were in an opera. Sing your anthem ten, or twenty, times per day.

-Meet new characters. There's the old c*nt with the doggie treats. She lures strangers toward her--with her treats--then she screams at them for perceived misbehaviors. She co-opts your dog, though you have not asked for her help; you have not asked for her treats. One day, she announces to your partner: "I've found a great name for your dog--Dory! It's so much better than Salvy!" It doesn't matter that "Dory" tends not to refer to dogs of your dog's gender; it tends to refer to female dogs. Your partner, stunned, does not comment. But one morning--having been urged, over and over, by a professional therapist, toward a "generally-assertive stance"--you find yourself outside with the doggie-treat c*nt. "Hi, Dory!" she says, loudly, crazily. And you discover words flowing from your mouth, and the words are: "That's not his name." Puzzled, the c*nt examines you, and says, "Well...*I* call him Dory." And more words come from your mouth! "Yes! Again, Dory is not his name." Walk briskly away. What has come over you?

-There's the passive-aggressive dog-walker, from Prospect Bark, who might actually be suicidal. Midway through her tenure, she begins shaving her head and speaking urgently to the dog while you're in earshot, as if you don't exist. She seems consumed with rage. "Poor Salvy," she says, but is she really addressing the dog? "Poor Salvy. Your breed most certainly wasn't made for this hot weather." (Why do you feel as if you have just been accused of having taken an active role in the Holocaust?) "Poor Salvy. You really struggle with all that extra weight." (But a vet said it *wasn't* extra weight? Does anyone actually know anything on this planet?) "Poor Salvy. Your owner skips your meal after you've puked, and everyone knows this just leads to bile." (But: Does it? And does everyone really know?) Shy away from the dog-walker, as if she were a dominatrix, or your boss; pray silently that, at least this morning, you won't offend her in any obvious way.

-"Shave your lab," says your neighbor, confidently, without having been asked for advice. "It's really best to shave a lab in the summertime." Smile. Pretend to file this information.

-Write fervently about your dog, and your sex life, and your therapy, in a public forum, because it's the end of the school-year, and you're slightly strung out. Sip Poland Spring. Sigh. Carry on.