The Capo

“Don Corleone, I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your daughter’s … wedding… on the day of your daughter’s wedding. And I hope their first child be a masculine child.”

- Luca Brasi, practicing his speech, over and over.

- The Godfather

Vito has white paws, which I believe my family has mistaken for ancient Chinese foot-binding bandages. This must be the reason they have not allowed his feet to touch the ground.

He was so unused to standing on the floor, that if for some reason his paw pads touched the carpet, he began to shake as if we set him in a snake pit. At any given moment, two to four family members were on standby to swoop him up and save him from his inner demons.

On his first day home he appeared disinterested in food, so Beth hand-fed him while he lay in her arms. Christina threaded him into the hand-warmer of her hoodie and carried him around the house that way. Nick passed him to a buddy while he lined up his pool cue.

While he and the pup sat on the couch, Brian said Vito seemed to want to perch on his shoulders. He slung Vito around the back of his neck like a fur collar.

Like any new baby welcomed into the family, he’s had many visitors. We’ve had some fun celebrations as a steady stream of neighbors and their children, friends, and relatives hoisted him to their faces and breathed in his sweet-smelling fur. One friend Jim, who pumps iron and rides a Harley, kissed him.

He received so many gifts you would have thought it was his daughter’s wedding day.

The big event has caused wear and tear on us because it’s exhausting to escort a puppy everywhere. We can’t call him because he doesn’t know his name. We can’t find him because he’s so small. So we might as well just carry him around.

We got a respite when my brother Joe, his wife Kelli, and their children stopped by. When my nephews and niece finished cradling him, Kelli finally got her chance. You would think that after having had five children -- and babysitting another -- Kelli would have needed a break, but a mother is a mother. He was pudding in her lap as she stroked him and nonchalantly joined in the adult conversation. At one point, as she patted his back, I swear he burped.

Somewhere down the line, Vito is going to have to get somewhere on his own four feet. Before long he is going to be a 50-pound sack of potatoes. I fear bad habits have already started and that he has begun to think he’s the capo and that we’re his soldiers.

I am going to have to lay down the law that he has to learn to walk alone … as I type with him sprawled across my lap.