Before we begin, allow me to pimp for a book to which I contributed. It's called Maybe Baby: 28 Writers Tell The Truth About Skepticism, Baby Lust....and a bunch of other things. Editor Lori Leibovich has pulled together a fascinating collection of honest confessionals from fine writers about parenthood, which the propaganda tells us is life's great adventure. And there's not a mention of Grups to be found anywhere in the text. I'm still kicking myself for ever talking to that reporter. Anyway, my essay is about our decision to have only one child. I still can't believe it when I see the mothers at Elijah's school, and I mean most of them, who have three-year-olds and also babies hanging from sacks slung across their chests. Though none of them are, to my knowledge, insane, having more than one kid still seems like kind of an insane choice. Then again, that may be because of the type of kid we have. And besides, we have another child of sorts already, which brings us to today's narrative.

For this year's family Easter activity, we took Hercules to the annual Haute Dog parade in Long Beach. It was Regina's idea. She's been very concerned about Hercules since we moved to Los Angeles. Herc has developed a twitch on the left side of his mouth, and Regina claims she sees patches of gray hair. It's true that the neighborhood is full of terrifying dogs that want to eat Hercules, and inside the house there's a boy who is constantly smacking him and pulling his ears. But I think there's a different reason for his problems. I'd have a twitch, too, if, like Hercules, I continually took poop out of the catbox and munched on it like I would a Snickers bar.

But things have been improving for the Herc. Regina found a Boston Terrier Meetup group. We got together once at the dog park in Silverlake. The meetup was run by a middle-aged gay man who, the one time we met him, wore a sweatshirt that bore the blown-up image of a Boston. His own Boston, a creature named Billy, was the largest representative of the breed I've ever seen. At one point, Billy went pretty hard after another dog in the run, pissing off the other dog's owner, whose intended status as a bad-ass cholo was muted somewhat by the fact that he owned a Pomeranian. Hercules charmed everyone at the Meetup, even though he got so excited that he ran around the whole time with a strand of drool that ran from jowl to jowl like decorative jewelry. Regina, emboldened by the Herc's performance, signed him up for a Dogster profile, which you can find here. Hercules definitely has more friends than I do.

And thus, the Haute Dog parade. Regina prepared a lovely costume for the Herc. He wore a purple-and-red scarf around his neck, and a flowery purple ribbon. Atop these, Regina placed a small Easter basket, and inside that, small Boston Terrier figurine. For herself, Regina wore a broad-brimmed gardening hat, which she decorated with various red pieces of fabric and a red plastic flower. She said that if she was going to be a crazy dog lady, then at least she needed to play the part.

Whereas the day before, I'd taken Elijah to downtown Los Angeles for the Blessing Of The Animals, a pure shining example of authentic American surrealism, working-class style, the Easter dog parade in Long Beach revealed a very different America.

There were dogs dressed in bee costumes, a dog dressed as Elvis, and one dog done up in some kind of Venetian carnival-type outfit, as well as various poodles, dyed blue and pink and orange. One woman, costumed like Minnie Pearl on crystal meth, obsessively took photos of her little Fifi-type dog, who sat princess-like in a wagon, surrounded by decorative pillows, while the song "Easter Parade" played over and over again in an endless loop. Then again, we brought a Boston Terrier dressed in a purple scarf, so we had little room to criticize.

When Regina paid the $10 entry fee, which went to some sort of animal rescue society, she signed Hercules up for a free session with a dog psychic. Regina is the one who watches reality-based shows on the Sci-Fi Network without skepticism, but for some reason I got to sit down with the psychic, who appeared to be a perfectly normal upper-middle-class woman.

The psychic fed Hercules little chunks of Dick Van Patten's Natural Balance Chicken and Liver Pate Formula. He responded with enthusiasm. She then began scribbling furiously onto a yellow pad. And then she delivered her verdict. While she talked, she referred to "they" a lot. I don't know who "they" are, but I'm guessing some sort of doggy spirit-type things.

"They're telling me that Hercules is happy to be with you," she said.

"He is."

"But that he's a little sad."

"Oh no."

"He doesn't get to go out enough."

"He's scared of the other dogs in our neighborhood."

"I don't mean walks. There are enough walks. He wants to go in the car with you all the time."

"OK," I said. "That can be fixed."

"And that's about it. He seems like a great dog."

"We're having some problems with him and our son. Elijah hurts him. I don't think he means to, but..."

"Hang on," she said, and beging scribbling again.

"They're telling me that Elijah is very restless," she said.

"That's true."

"He wants more interaction with you. Well, actually, not you. He spends a lot of time laughing and rough-housing with you."

"Yep."

"He wants more interaction with his mother."

She turned to Regina.

"You need to do more projects with him. But they're telling me that you feel overwhelmed."

She turned back to me.

"You need to help out more."

"How could I possibly help out more?" I said.

"That's not for me to decide."

We left the dog psychic. She had poked at some of my marriage's deepest wounds.

"You need to do more projects with him. Art, or whatever," I said. "No more TV in the afternoons."

"You need to help me out more," said Regina.

"Whatever," I said.

The parade began. We joined the line with a gaggle of other Boston terriers, including one who was wearing the type of dress favored by actors playing saloon dancers at Disneyland, one who was missing an eye, and one named Guinness who was done up in Shamrocks and beer paraphernalia.

The parade was like a red carpet walk, or maybe a perp walk. About 300 people had paid the 10 bucks for charity. The rest of the people, dogs in lap, snapped pictures. Hercules proved pretty popular. He did his jumping and his licking and he got photographed. Elijah began to get yitchy. He doesn't like it when the camera focuses on someone besides him.

So Elijah dropped to his knees and began panting. The crowd roared, and he responded by walking on all fours down a public sidewalk, picking up heaven knows what evil bacteria, stopping only to jump on the cutest 10-year-old girls he could find. Suddenly, he was the most popular photographic subject of the day. Like any good showbiz parent, I encouraged him.

"Come on, boy!" I said. "Let's go, boy! Good boy!"

The crowd howled with laughter.

"What kind of a dog are you?" someone asked.

"I'm a person dog!" he said. "Bark bark!"

We went on like that for several blocks, but the crowd began to close in on us. Elijah, while below knee level, found a Fruit Leather, still in its wrapping. He prepared to eat it. We passed by a couple and their little girl, who was weeping.

"Did you just pick that up off the sidewalk?" said the dad.

"We did," I said.

"Bark!" said Elijah.

"Honey," he said. "I think we found your fruit leather."

And then Elijah's dog career ended.

"Some girls lose their fruit leathers," he said, once again mastering the obvious.

Later, after a watered-down fruit smoothie from Jamba Juice, we walked down 2nd Avenue, post parade, toward our car. Hercules stopped in front of a nice sidewalk restaurant to drink some water that the owners had generously put out for parade dogs. Before we could stop him, Elijah bent down and dumped it all over the sidewalk. I stood mortified, unable to speak, while Regina apologized.

We walked back to the car in a rage.

"Why didn't you say something?" she said.

"What was I supposed to say?" I said. "I'm sorry that I'm raising a narcissist with intermittent behavior problems because I know of no other way to function in the world?"

"Give me a break," she said. "He's three."

"Don't blame me," I said. "You're the one who's not spending enough time with him."

"You need to help me out more."

We went home, and I set to work doing the dishes while Regina and Elijah played a sea-animal card quiz game that the Easter Bunny had put in Elijah's basket. Later, my wife and son began work on a box home for the butterfly that would soon emerge from the chrysalis we'd recently bought at the Kidspace Museum.

Maybe we should give that dog psychic a call.

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