Last night I had a dream that you were just a newborn and weren't doing so well. In fact, we thought you were dead. So my family put you in the oven to "revive" you--you know, like they do in that Disney movie--I think it's "101 Dalmatians"--only somebody put you inside an oven mitt and left you in the oven too long. When I realized the oven was smoking with, presumably, the remains of your charred flesh, I rushed to the oven and pulled you out. The oven mitt was toasty, but there you were, pink as a peach and brought back into the realm of the living. It was a miracle!

Barbequed puppies aside, I think you'll really like it in my parents' home. But I'm writing to give you a few cautionary notes, as someone who lived through the "New Puppy Scenario" many times at the Stier residence:

1) My sister is going to want to name you some terrible, pastry-related name. I refer you to our other dog, Cinnamon, who was named Buddy when we adopted him. You're so lucky she's outgrown her Sailor Moon phase. But for a seventh grade girl, puppy names like Eclair or Cocoa are still very popular. The solution? Take matters into your own hands. When she calls out "Hershey," don't respond. When she beckons for "Sugardrop," pee on the rug. If your name becomes a Pavlovian response to soil household objects, you will find yourself renamed quicker than that rolled-up newspaper just smacked you on the ass.

2) A follow-up note: my mother will want to call you some Irish name that sounds like the title of a Gaelic fairy tale. We have tried to explain that no one on this side of the Atlantic knows, let alone cares, who Finn McCool (native spelling: Phinn McCoull? That would never fit on a dog tag!) was, and that it's embarrassing to explain you named your dog after a mutant Irish giant. But she is very stubborn. Hello, my sister's name is Maeve. Proceed as above. (The piddling on command!)

3) At some point in the next few months, my mother will try to get rid of you. Inevitably, you will eat somebody's shoe or scratch a teak cabinet or mistake someone's finger for a hot dog. Accidents, of course. They happen! But your new family will not be so forgiving. Once or twice, you'll escape with a thwack on the bottom and some vinegar in the eye, but if you push too hard, pretty soon Mom and Maeve will have The Talk, aka, The Screaming Match Over Getting Rid Of You And/Or Putting You To Sleep. The best advice is...use those puppy eyes! Gambol with a sock. Pose with one ear flopped inside-out as many times as you can. Just be cute and ride it out. This too shall pass.

4) Should you soil the floor, make sure my father cleans up after you and not Maeve. She's...not as thorough. Best to wait until you can get outside, of course, but if worse comes to worse, remember: Tile is uh-oh, carpet is yuck-oh. (Or, if you prefer, "Tile is once, but carpet is forever.")

5) You'll be sharing the house with Cinnamon, another chocolate lab, who in every way resembles a bear. While he is very friendly, he is also clinically obese, with a tail that could take out a window (or your eye). Also: he has separation anxiety. This means if he is left alone in the house, he tears apart any unsecured objects to relieve his stress. Plastic sandwich bags, the legs of chairs, grout---nothing is safe. This is in no way imitable behavior and following his lead could land you some sessions with Cathy, the animal behaviorist. As you were born four weeks ago, I doubt you've learned the word "Nazi" yet, and let's hope you never do.

Well I think that about covers it. For now, bask in your new puppy popularity, roll over every once in a while, watch out for open ovens, and it will be many long and happy years until my father carts you off to that big Farm In The Sky. Woof!

Meghan #