For a long time we wanted to get a second dog. Then we had a baby, and I had to give up this desire for a while. Now I might want a second child. I also still want a second dog. When I think about getting a second dog, I think about what we might name the dog. It’s exciting that we won’t have to disguise naming the dog after a writer or artist. Our dog is named Genet, and I fantasize about a little terrier named Violette Leduc, so if our Genet ignores her or humps her, I can pretend I’m enacting some literary gossip, as Violette Leduc always abjected herself to Genet in her desire for his friendship. With babies, there is more pressure to at least disguise one’s pretensions. Our daughter is named after Leonora Carrington, but we call her Leo. On the playground she plays with a girl named Cy (after Cy Twombly), a Willa (after Willa Cather), and a Nico. There was a Joaquin today. There is an Émile (or Emil)—we don’t know whether that’s after Zola or, what I originally thought, Cioran, although the name might have nothing to do with writing at all. I have no idea what we would name the second child. I scan my bookshelves and nothing feels right. Perhaps this is a sign we are not going to have a second child. I think it’s more likely we will get a second dog.