I’m at the computer, typing, when SteelyKid starts fussing in the porta-crib in the living room. “Oh, why are you crying?” I say, as I cross the room. This is the fifth outbreak of fussiness today. “What am I going to do with you?”
“We could eat it!” the dog says, from her pillow next to the crib.
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m just sayin’, dude. If the noise is getting to you, it’s not that big. We could totally eat it.”
“We are not going to eat SteelyKid. She’s a baby, not a snack.” I get to the crib, and start trying to calm her. “And she’s just as cute as you are.”
The dog looks indignant. “Maybe if you like bipeds.”
I get a good whiff from the crib. “Anyway, she’s just crying because she’s messed her diaper. You’d cry, too.”
“Except I know better. Why don’t you just put her outside, and let her crap in the back yard, the way I do?”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed this, but she’s not that mobile.”
“Now that you mention it, shouldn’t she be walking by now? It’s been weeks.”
“It’s not even two weeks. And she’s a baby human, not a puppy. It’ll be months before she’s walking.”
“That’s pretty lame.”
“Yes, well, that’s just how it goes with humans.” I start upstairs to the changing table, SteelyKid in my arms.
“That’ll just make it easier to catch and eat…” the dog mutters.
“I heard that!”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m a good dog! I won’t eat the baby!”
“Good.” SteelyKid chooses this moment to start wailing again.
“Not without permission, anyway…”