Alright, here’s the deal. I’ve been ruling the Friedman household since 2008, and I really like it that way. With my arrival came the arrangement of my own potty area in the atrium, a shared Cal-King bed in which I take up about 85%, theft of pillows on every cushiony surface, my own wall that houses an overflowing basket of toys, and a schedule that runs like clockwork, dictated by my food bowl and “psychotherapy” cocktail (my mom and dad have gone to countless dog-tors to determine that I have separation anxiety, for which I take a daily pill that most humans take during their 40s and 50s when they also buy a random sports car or boat. Yeah, sure, whatever. I am actually just an attention whore who throws a fit when I’m left alone and the spotlight is off).

So where am I going with this? I’m hearing all this talk about baby-this and August-that. As far as I know, I’m the baby and August is a slow month for regular dog park trips (something about the heat… but I’m a dog and don’t sweat, so it’s no big whoop to me). But then I saw mom reading these books and surfing the web for articles that had nothing to do with me. And she sleeps with this stupid looking pillow (which really interferes with my space). And I noticed lately she wears ridiculous jeans that are meant to accommodate her belly that’s looking — I’m sorry, but can I say this? — really fat these days. I know, I know, I’m one to talk with all the peanut butter I eat and the lack of exercise I get, but mom’s tummy is starting to look like that corgi’s I see at the dog park.

I’m no dummy (I know “sit,” “down,” “wave,” “car,” “in the house,” “crawl,” and everyone’s favorite, “bang bang”) and I’ve heard about this happening to other dogs I’ve met in my three years of life. My parents are going to have a baby (in fact, I was there when “it” happened. Ew). I’m not sure how I feel. Mom keeps saying I’ll be a cute big brother. What makes her assume such a thing? Dad tells me I’m in for a real treat. Great, but unless mom is giving birth to a chewy stick, I’m not so sure it’s such a treat. I’m still digesting this concept of having a baby in the house, and I’m a little worried about how it will affect me. I’ve heard some horror stories, but I’m actually pretty easy-going (besides being an attention whore. I’m well aware of that vice), so as long as there’s no excessive tail-pulling, I don’t have to share the bed with any more humans, and the dirty diapers stay far away from my food bowl, I think I may adjust just fine.

I actually really like kids. I’ve been around a few, and they’re not too bad. Just no drooling. I don’t drool and I’m a dog. So, as long as the new human doesn’t drool, we could be in business. I mean, I didn’t sign up to live with a Saint Bernard (gosh, some of my peers are so embarrassing). Also, let’s keep the crying to a minimum, alright? There’s no need. If you’re really a hungry, join me at my kibble. I’ll share. And a bottle is sooooo amateur. Lap it up and quench that thirst right away. Sheesh. No wonder Nana raised Wendy, John, and Michael. That bitch knew what she was doing (I mean that term in a technical and clinical way. I’m actually quite a gentleman). Anyway, what I’m saying is that yes, mom and dad are going to get all the credit for raising this baby. But really, I can teach it a thing or two and I’m not going to let that jealous stigma follow me. No, no, no. I’m going to welcome this baby with open paws and teach it how to play tug with a squeaky toy. I will protect the new baby and lie at the foot of the crib and keep mom company when she provides late night feedings (or just steal her pillow while she’s out of bed). We will go on adventures together and hike in the wildnerness (okay, who am I kidding? Friedmans don’t do wilderness. We do couch.). But to all those who mock, “Ohhh, Princeton, your days are numbered,” I say “Hogwash.” Make no bones about it, I am going to be one kick ass big brother.

And at the end of the day, we all know who still rules the house. Princeton is king.