I Am Losing The War Against The Dogs Who Want To Lick The Baby

Previously: Dogs only want one thing and that’s to lick the baby. “They want to lick the baby, or nothing. Theirs is an all-licking policy, with no room for compromise.”

The baby Rocco has been living with us for four months now. During that time the dogs have maintained with the strictest of adherence to the clearest of agendas: They want to lick the baby. From the moment the baby hoves into view in the morning until he is placed in his bassinet and out of sight in the evening, they consider every minute not spent licking him a wasted one.

Gogo will actually tremble with gridlocked licking energy, when he sits within licking distance of a baby foot and I (gently) move his head away. He has all the intense, frustrated affect of Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment:

“Let me. Lick the baby. Let me lick the baby, now. Let me lick the baby. No one is licking the baby,” et cetera. You can see a recent example here, where he has been airlifted out of licking distance and given the eminently reasonable compromise of being allowed to sit on my chest.

Before the baby arrived, this would have made him perfectly happy. Now he is disgusted by this worthless distraction, and he has put the full force of his cotton-ball-weight paws onto my neck to register his indignation.

But there is no limit to what they will take, if I budge further on the subject. They would wear him down to a little salt-lick nubbin, if they could. This is unreasonable; I only have one baby and he’s supposed to get bigger, not smaller, if I understand the assembly instructions correctly.

Moping and sullenness are the new order of the day. I have offered ceaseless concessions. I am a reasonable man, with a four-month old baby. I am nothing if not accommodating! My latest terms are a time limit for hand- and foot-licking and no licking the baby directly in the mouth or eyes. No one can call this ungenerous! No one can say I am too strict!

But you can see for yourselves the result of these concessions: Righteous indignation, and the sulks. I try to meet them halfway — more than halfway — and they do nothing but brood.

It has been too long since anyone licked the baby, they seem to say. He is going to get ill. You must let us get back to our lifesaving work.

“They also serve, who only stand and wait,” I remind them. Then they stand and wait for about thirty seconds before trying again.

This is not a criticism of baby Rocco, but I must say that he does nothing to back me up on this subject. He treats being licked by the dogs as a matter of total indifference. “Doesn’t matter to me,” is his attitude. “If it makes them happy — why not,” never mind that it leaves me as the resident scapegoat.

“You’re not helping at all,” I tell him, but he cheerfully ignores me and instead tries to eat his own foot. Which is precisely why I don’t want to let the dogs lick it. But no one else involved in this situation agrees.

Grace and Lily hold firm, I should say. They see things just as they should. But there are only three of us, and by my count there are at least seventeen of the dogs on any given day.

“Is it time to lick the baby now?” is the question forever on their lips. “Have you reconsidered your medieval outlook? We are here, ready to lick the moment you change your mind.”

It is difficult to imagine a future where I have won the war of attrition. I will never change my mind. But I do, sometimes, get very sleepy.