Stepdog by Mireya Navarro Page A

on our new hardwood floors all the way to the carpet in the stairwell. When I saw the dog running amok with dirty paws inside
my
house, I was furious at Jim.
    Where the hell was he? Didn’t I ask him to keep the dog off the unfinished yard? Didn’t I predict this? (It would be the first of my many psychic episodes as a married woman.) “EDDIIEE!” I screamed, grabbing him in mid-run so he stopped soiling the house. “JIIIIIIIIIIIIM!”
    I waited for Jim, sitting next to his dog in a wrestling lock. We were both panting.
    Was this new, beautiful dream house really my home? Were these kids and this mutt really part of my life now? Everything felt chaotic and out of control. Jim was my partner. He and I had to be a team for us to work, for me to feel supported in unfamiliar territory. Discuss, strike agreements, follow through. Yet here he was failing me on Day 1. Didn’t he promise he’d make sure his dog didn’t go into the backyard?
    When Jim came in through the garage door into the dining room, his smile disappeared when he saw my angry face.
    â€œThis is exactly what I didn’t want to happen,” I said.
    Without a word, Jim quickly took Eddie back to the garage to clean him up. My fiancé was surprised at my anger and didn’t like it. He believed I was missing the point. This was the official start of our new life together. Why was I obsessing over the dog when we should have been savoring this happy milestone? Pizza arrived and we all gathered around the table in a nook off the kitchen. Jim chatted with the kids while I ate in silence and Eddie twisted on the professionally cleaned carpet, scratching his back.
    By bedtime I had calmed down and started to feel guilty. I had overreacted. It was clear that I freaked out not about the dog but about my new circumstances. I had to take a deep breath and stop feeling so anxious. Could we rewind?
    â€œI’m sorry I overreacted,” I said when we were in bed.
    â€œLet’s make a promise,” Jim said. “The Archbishop of Canterbury gave this advice to Prince Charles and Diana when they were married. He said, ‘Don’t go to bed angry.’ I think that’s great advice.”
    â€œYes,” I said, wholeheartedly committing to this beautifully unrealistic concept that not even Charles and Diana could follow under direct orders.
    The next morning when I woke up, Jim was long gone from our bed. He was an early riser, even on Sundays. He had showered, walked Eddie, picked up
The New York Times
and the
Los Angeles Times
from our driveway, and served himself breakfast before I woke up to the chirp of birdies perched on the magnolia tree by our bedroom window. When I opened the bedroom door to go downstairs, there was a lump at my feet. Eddie was lying on the floor across the doorway. The first time he did this in Jim’s old town house, I thought: How sweet. He’s been waiting for me. But he wasn’t just waiting. He was guarding me like a corrections officer at Sing Sing, making sure I didn’t escape and attack Jim with kisses.
    As I stepped over him, he sprang up and broke into growling barks. He barked as he raced ahead of me and escorted me down the stairs. He continued barking as I reached Jim, who was eating his usual cereal and toast while juggling the papers. Eddie was in hysterics, jumping on me, jumping on Jim, and trying to get in between us, preventing me from getting close enough to our man. Jim’s solution was to give him a hand to lick. Gross. I planted one foot on Eddie’s side and gave him a firm push. Out of my way, Eduardo. He’s mine.
    â€œGood morning, baby,” I finally said.
    Muah! I kissed him extra-loud to rise over the barking and perhaps induce such excited delirium the dog would drop dead.
    â€œGood morning!” my sweetie said. “Did you sleep well, darling?”
    â€œVery well, thank you. And you?”
    Eddie positioned himself across