I AGREED TO BABY SIT?

George, I'd like to see you sass this white lady!

She's not gentle and forgiving like me. And a mere "sorry" would just get you a nip on the nose — not like the playful nips I give you, either; there'd be blood.

My parents have had Molly (a Christmas present from me — O irony!) for only six weeks and she is now the unchallenged head of the household, wielding her authority mercilessly and indulging her whims immoderately. You'd think her ancestors were the emperors of Rome and not a line of humping bumpkins from the backwoods of Kansas. Wait. Scratch imperial Rome. Her behavior is closer to a more modern set of fascist dictators: Imelda Marcos (the foot fetish); Eva Peron (illusions of grandeur); Kim il-Jong (lunatic hair); Idi Amin (complete madness of the Dark Continent military variety).

I should have known when I agreed to watch her for five days that, along with her rawhides and chew-toys and hot-pink accessories, she would bring a bloody reign of terror.

The signs were there. To quote my prescient self from the last time I wrote about this changeling: Probably next time I visit Molly will bark ferociously at me and try to run me off. And my parents will take her side and give her a treat. Remember that?

The most telling sign was a conversation I had with my mom just before I agreed to watch Molly. We were on the phone, which is where all of our significant conversations take place. She was telling me — with evident glee — how "ornery" Molly was becoming. She used the word "ornery" where anyone who gives a shit about precision in language would have said "maniacal" or "completely possessed by Lucifer." Then she went on to say that she had been reading in the dog-training manual I gave them that West Highland Terriers are extremely "stubborn." There was a definite note of pride in her voice when she continued:

"The book says you should never have a fight with a Westie."

"Why's that?" I ask on cue.

"BECAUSE THEY ALWAYS WIN," she says with awe, surrendering herself to the "teachings" of her dog book like a literal-minded evangelical to the grim, ancient words of the Old Testament. Don't worship false idols. Don't have premarital sex. Don't covet your neighbor's wife. Don't dance to the Devils' music. And whatever you do, don't get in a fight with a Westie.

So now my parents are tiptoeing around Molly, fearful of provoking her Jehovah-like wrath — which condition, of course, doesn't preclude, but only enhances, their utter and sincere worship of her.

They have been gone only since Friday, and already I have gotten two phone calls and an urgent e-mail proclaming how much they miss her and asking for every detail of her dog days. How many times did she bless my house with her cute little poops? Is she eating enough? Did I remember her treats? Isn't she the most darling thing that ever lived? Are Mabel and Rupert being sufficiently worshipful?

In answering this last question, I am a bit evasive. Well, actually, I totally lie. I say something like, "They're getting along fine. I think Mabel and Rupert really enjoy her." In truth, they are avoiding her like the plague — worse than the plague even (George, what is worse than the plague? Have you gotten to Medieval medical horrors yet in nursing school?). They are afraid, I believe, that if they associate with her they will be blamed for her bits of mischief (the torn-up plants, the chewed-up shoes, the failure to honor thy parents, the incessant toe biting and sock stealing). Mabel can say certain English words and phrases like "tomorrow" and "I love you" and the whole first verse of "The Star-Spangled Banner." This morning, after Molly nipped her several times on the face, I saw Mabel conspiring in a corner with Rupert, and I distinctly heard her say — with perfect Black Muslim intonation — "Kill Whitey!"

I swear.

So now the dogs are segregated. And the black separatists are talking armed rebellion while the white supremacist, brought up to believe the Establishment's in her corner, is plotting her next show of force.

Here's a sample of what I'm dealing with until Wednesday. Imagine a soundtrack of high-pitched, incessant barking and the sassy growling of an egomaniac who can't get enough of looking at herself in the mirror: