One of my sisters-in-law had a baby in December, and another delivered hers a few days ago. I just returned from a baby shower for my friend Lauri, which another friend (and former “sister-in-law”), Margaret, attended with her own infant.

What is it about babies? They are suddenly turning up everywhere, like the birds in The Birds, although with considerably more accessories. Lauri received enough supplies to outfit an army, assuming it was an army of toddling girls. Other mothers showed up, like overburdened sherpas, lugging their offspring and bags bulging with diapers, bottles, wardrobe for all seasons, and every toy ever known to occupy the child’s attention, if only for a split second.

At the baby shower, Rob and I befriended another gay couple, Bill and Eric, who were talking adoption. When that topic arises, I always reflect on the thankless task of raising my dog. Inspired by the infant fashion festival, we went home, retrieved our little Boston terrier, and visited the dog clothier. You may recall that the animal psychic we consulted reported that Goblin wanted to pick out her own outfit. She chose a red ensemble: a sleek coat and a pretty collar with flowers on it. The whole thing cost more than my last outfit, but anything for our little bat-eared beauty queen.

I have always maintained that I do not have enough patience for babies, and that they should be neither seen nor heard from until they graduate from high school. Goblin, however, whose obstinate puppyhood transformed my already-traumatized nerves into guitar strings, has been good practice for the breeding instincts of my family and friends.

If I could only remember to stop calling their children by my dog’s name, we’ll be good to go.