“There you are,” I say to her sweetly, the wriggling boy in my arms. She keeps her head lowered, lifts her foggy eyes, rolls to show me the belly that I have no hands to pet.

In our case, the beginning of one life arrived wrapped in a looming, wet tongued end.

In the hours of broken sleep I dream of them both, our old dog and our new son, two passing ships in the galaxy of souls, tipping hats as one keeper passes the job to another.

When I wake they are both in the room, the bassinet very close, the dog bed, yards away.

The dog coughs, the baby stirs, we wince with our entire bodies.

Perhaps each household is allotted a finite amount of joy, as if the wizard’s hands are tied, this is simply the rule of beginnings: Should you acquire giggle and coo, you must forfeit fetch and wag. 

In the yard she sticks her nose in the spots where she has found good smells before, but the wind has carried them away and she must sniff for a new thing to love.

“That’s your puppy dog!” We say to our boy as she crosses his path on the floor. “Are you waving to the puppy dog?” He is. “Hello,” or maybe, “bye-bye.”