The Misanthropic Shiba

Mischa:  Bedtime for puppies.  Come on, Tierce.  Bedtime!

Me:  You are just ga-ga over that dog.

Mischa: *scoops Tierce up and cradles him like a baby*  No.

Me:  Ahuh.

Mischa:  Awww… look at da wittow puppy.  *Carries Tierce over so that his nose pokes my ear*

Me:  Yes, he’s a good little puppy.

Tierce:  *martyred expression*

Mischa:  It’s time to take da wittow puppy upstairs.

Me:  Seriously.  It’s kind of weird having a guy who looks like a Hell’s Angel, murmuring to their dog in baby talk.

Mischa:  Ohhhhhh look, Mommy’s mad.  We’d better go upstairs.

Me:  I’m not the dog’s mother.

Mischa:  Practically.

Tierce:  It would still make me a son of a bitch.

Me:  No, he’s my dog.  Not my kid.

Mischa:  Don’t listen to her.

Tierce:  Oh, believe me, I try not to.

Mischa:  Listen to Daddy, instead.

Me:  Oh, please.  Goo-goo, ga-ga, it’s enough to make you sick.

Mischa:  You baby-talk him too!

Me:  Yeah, right.  Tierce, do I baby talk da wittow puppy?

Tierce:  Yes.

Mischa:  See!  That’s baby-talk!

Me:  I’m merely communicating with Tierce on an emotional level.  You, on the other hand, are just being weird.

Mischa:  C’mon Tierce, let’s go upstairs and put da puppy to bed.

Me:  Yeah, Tierce, go upstairs with Daddy and put him to bed.

Mischa:  HAH!

Me:  What?

Mischa:  You said ‘Daddy’!

Me:  I was being facetious.

Mischa:  That rolled off your tongue too well.

Tierce:  Yeah, you’ve said it to me lots of times.

Me:  You know what, just go upstairs.  Okay?

Mischa:  Fine.  Let’s go, Tierce.

Tierce:  Um, yeah.  Let’s go.  Great.

Me:  Yes, Tierce, Mommy’ll be up there soon.

Mischa:  HAH!

Me:  Shut up!

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