Lou thinks it looks like a baby. I don’t. If we can do something with this potato, if we can win a world record with this giant, then that’ll be something. Lou will be happy.
At 17 pounds, it’s not even a baby. It’s a small child.
I choose a dress for the dog. I started putting dresses on Peanut a few months ago. To make Lou happy. This one is pink, with a poodle embroidered on the skirt. A poodle skirt for a Chihuahua. That’s okay, isn’t it? I’ll see if Lou notices.
“That’s my baby girl,” he says to the dog. “That’s my princess. Tell Mommy you need a pancake.”
I never mastered pancakes. Mine are flat and heavy and the syrup sits on top of them. I do my best.
“Tell Daddy if he goes to the store, we need milk,” I tell Peanut, turning a fresh pancake from the electric skillet.
This is how we talk now, through the dog.
Lou goes to the back bedroom, fetches the 17-pound potato, puts it in the highchair he nabbed when the neighbor put it out for trash. He cuts up pancake, puts it on the tray in front of the potato.
I can’t tell him about the letter, the one from the world record people. Our potato is not a potato. They don’t say what it is, but potato it is not. DNA stuff. I don’t know what that means. Or how they got DNA. I’m afraid to ask Lou.
“Ask Daddy if he wants to come to the park,” I say to Peanut.
Peanut barks.
“Tell Mommy we’ll get our shoes,” Lou says.
He’ll push the potato in the kiddie swing, and he’ll smile.
