Baby Dolls

So, where to start. Suppose we begin in April, when the stork arrived via an Internet window that said, "Save Pound Puppies." And so we did. My boyfriend, Dan, and I finally agreed to do what was sure to be undoable during finals week: we got a puppy.
Or should I say, we more or less got a puppy.

The omen should have been clear. The rescuer clearly warned us, "Now, she's an ornery one." So she's got some attitude, we don't mind.

Tiny problem. She was a monster disguised as a fur ball. We couldn't touch her without being bitten. She lunged at your face. She went, where and when she pleased. She ate everything but the drywall, including the base trim. But the worst was that she screamed whenever left alone. She shook and got the hiccups. It was so despairing to see, you almost forgot the bloody bite marks on your fingers and arms.

I didn't know what to do. I mean, playing house was easier right? If you had a baby doll that wouldn't stop crying, you just said never mind let's pretend I don't have a baby. If you got sick of it, I mean it was only pretend, you just gave it up for adoption. Or dropped it at daycare. Or hired a nanny. But this was something else entirely. I couldn't give her back. I couldn't say, Uh I'm erasing my baby.

Instead I sat marooned on the bed while she ran tirelessly around the bedroom in circles, attacking your feet if they hit the floor.


Dan is home from work. He looks exhausted. I'm on the bed, eyes teary. You can hear snarling and ripping beneath the bed, though you see nothing.

"Baby, what's wrong--what the hell is she doing?" he says to me.

I pull my knees to my chest. "I can't take it anymore. She's a demon. I can't get her to listen to me. I tried pulling her out of there because she's acting psycho and she bit me.
Look! It's still bleeding."

"Just calm down. Don't be upset. I'll get her out."

"Delilah," he calls for the dog sternly.

"She's not going to come out. She'll just bite your face off."

"Lilah! Come out of there." His large frame is bent up, the remainder of his legs under
the dresser in our small space.

There is a long pause while he searches on all fours under the bed.

"Hope, I don't see her down here."

"Dan she's under there I can here her throwing a fit. I can feel her moving around hitting her head."

"Seriously Hope," he says shocked, "she's not here."

"What are you talking about dammit? Just leave her alone." I hop off the bed and onto the floor only to realize she isn't there.

"What is that snarling?" Dan looks at me.

I make my way on all fours to the foot of the bed and see what she's done.

"Dan come here."

"What?" He stands up, walks over, and kneels.

"Oh my God." His eyes are large and round.

"She tore a big hole in the fucking liner of the box springs and shes actually INSIDE the bed."

I put my hands over my face defeated as I hear more snarling and ripping. Then I look at Dan, and we both just laugh.

He grabs a stuffed bunny off the floor and starts waving it inside the massive rip. We hear tiny feet burrowing their way through the slats of our bed. Then, she latches on--baited so easily.

He snatches her quickly, tosses the feral beast my way, and I gently pin her down while he runs for a stapler to reattach the liner. She squirms but I distract her with a strip of leather, which she tears at until she feels she's sufficiently shredded it.

Once the staples are in place, I let her off the bed, then say to Dan exasperated, "That's it, I'm calling my Mom. I can't do this by myself."


Like I said, it was easier when we were girls. Dealing with a very young pup, estimated 6 weeks old, that has been abused and abandoned wasn't easy. But the rules of house are simple: we must nurture. Or so "house" dictates, and mommy and daddy thought they were ready. But when we were girls, we never called in our parents to deal with a plastic doll, or a mouthy child, work related stress. We just played a new game, or gave ourselves new names.

It's not that simple anymore girls. When we were young our plastic play centers had stoves and high chairs for babies that actually wetted themselves. We really were doing the things our mothers before us had done. And it occurs to me now, when did our mothers realize that they too were "playing house", with newborns that they couldn't quit and husbands that they couldn't quicky divorce or give new names? After all, then they were just imaginary and it was all just pretend.