I thought we could take a break from Willie.  

We need to talk about diarrhea. 

Not mine, guys.  

C’mon.  

I think if I ever do that, you should leave.  

Just go. 

I’d deserve it. 

No. I’m talking about my dog. 

See, I have a rescue beagle. His name is Pete. 

And Pete is high maintenance. 

Which I just don’t get — before he lived with me, Pete lived outside. In a kennel. With, like, 12 other dogs. 

He knows how to rough it. 

But now — well, now he won’t jump onto the sofa unless “his” spot is unoccupied. 

And his blanket is there because he doesn’t like the texture of the sofa. 

And a foot of sofa space is visible because he needs it for leverage while he positions his blankie just so. 

And everybody in the family is sitting in their designated spots — as determined by Pete. 

If those planets are not aligned, Pete sits on the floor and issues a short bark. 

Of course I make sure Pete’s sitting-on-the-sofa criteria are met when he barks like that! He’s my boyfriend! Also, he’s so unfortunate. He used to live outside! 

“He’s like this because you cater to him,” my husband says.  

I know. He’s ridiculous, right? 

Wait. You guys are talking about my husband, right? He’s the ridiculous one? 

I don’t think it was an accident Pete’s diarrhea started when my oldest left for college. 

See, I made a mistake.  

The week my oldest left home, I was using a new leave-in hair conditioner. 

It has a different smell than my old leave-in conditioner. 

A realization struck me. “Oh puppy boyfriend!” I said, cradling Pete’s face in my hands. “She’s gone and I smell different! Of course you’re stressed!” 

I maybe should have connected those dots before the thousands of dollars in vet visits, three rounds of antibiotics, and one day of driving around with dog diarrhea and three days’ worth of dog pee in the trunk of my car. 

And before I bought the prescription dog food. 

I immediately stopped using the leave-in conditioner. 

For months, my hair has sat tangled at the nape of my neck like a web of lies.  

But my dog hasn’t had diarrhea. 

That’s all that matters. 

I waited until my college kid came home to use that conditioner again. I’m hoping Pete associates the conditioner’s smell with my kid. 

That I’m planning how to integrate new conditioner so my dog doesn’t get stress diarrhea should illustrate just how high maintenance he’s become. 

It doesn’t stop there. 

In the morning, I work out in my bedroom. I close the door for a little peace. 

And so my remaining kid doesn’t hear the rampant cursing on The Boys. 

Pete doesn’t like the door closed. From the outside, he nudges it open. 

So I invite him in, give his chin a scratch, close the door, and get back to my cardio dance while Homelander shoots red lasers from his eyes. 

But Pete also doesn’t like when I work out.  

Or clean.  

Or work.  

Or do anything that isn’t sitting on the sofa with him. 

So Pete lays down, right in my dance zone. 

After a few minutes, Pete sits in front of the closed door. He wants out. 

So I open the door. When Pete walks out, I close it. 

But Pete turns, nudging it open. 

If opening and closing a bedroom door was an exercise, I’d look like an early ’80s Schwarzenegger.

Pete and I perform this dance through five or six cycles. Eventually, he decides to go downstairs. He lays on the living room sofa in the hopes someone in the house will feel sorry for him and quit school or their job so they can sit with him all day. 

But he listens for the door. If I close it, he comes back and nudges it open. 

Pete’s walks are no better. When he sees us gearing up to walk him, he barks and jumps. He grabs his harness with his mouth. If you’re not quick, he’ll shred it. 

If you attach his leash and, say, pour some milk into a mug of tea you’re hoping will warm your walk, Pete grabs his leash in his mouth, runs to you, and runs to the door. 

As if he’s saying, “This is how you walk me!” 

But one day, I was home when his dog walker came for his jaunt around the neighborhood. 

Now, Pete knows she’s there for his walk. She comes for zero reasons other than Pete. Her job is Pete. 

But there was no harness eating. No leash grabbing.  

Pete just sat by the door, tail wagging, patiently looking at his dog walker. 

She and I stopped to chat. But Pete — Pete made no moves for the door. He didn’t mouth his leash. He didn’t bark. He didn’t jump. 

“OK, Peter,” his walker said, using her nickname for him. “Where shall we go today?” 

And Pete calmly trotted out the door. 

“It’s you,” my husband said. “You know that, right? You coddle him.”

I don’t.  

But I have to go. 

Pete needs a belly rub. I have to do it now. 

I mean, he used to live outside …