"Mark, how come we don't have a baby?"

The filmmaker who had been sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying a nice Saturday afternoon lunch, nearly gagged as he looked at the opposite wall, now splattered with milk.

"What??"

"A baby. Why don't we have one?"

"Um… Roger, your parents did have the sex talk with you, didn't they?"

"Yes! I was talking about adoption! We could adopt a baby. Why don't we?"

Again, the filmmaker felt his throat contracting and he found himself spitting up the finely chewed bite of baloney sandwich that had previously been in his mouth. Feeling nauseous, he pushed his plate away, deciding that he would finish his meal later. Roger, babies, and baloney sandwiches were never a good combination.

"Roger, we've been together for less than a year, we haven't even had sex yet, and you want a baby?!"

"Well," Roger began, forcing a look of disappointment to wash across his face, "I guess we could just get a puppy or something…"  He sighed heavily and flopped down on the worn sofa dramatically.

"Yes! A puppy!" Mark cried enthusiastically. "Much better… a puppy," he repeated, obviously relieved.

Roger smirked to himself as the color returned to Mark's face and he once again turned to his sandwich. 'I knew it'd work.'

Two hours later the two men were walking down the street: Roger chattering away about his new puppy, Killer, and Mark desperately trying to tune him out. As he listened to the description of the killer pitbull, he began to wish that he had simply agreed to a nice, harmless, non-rabid baby.

They finally reached the pet store and Roger raced inside while Mark shook his head and whispered a silent prayer before stepping in after his lover.

"Rog?" he called out after scanning the half-empty store.

Hamsters running round and round on neon colored wheels, iguanas and other lizards trying to camouflage themselves against the browns and greens of their cardboard surroundings, fish engaged in a never-ending game of follow the leader, in which no one ever won, but Roger could not be seen anywhere.

Suddenly a loud squeal/yelp coming from the back room of the store and then the barking and howling of many dogs, caught Mark's attention. He turned around and walked in the direction of the squeal, knowing full well that it would lead him to Roger.

"Mark, Mark!" the musician shouted upon seeing the filmmaker's entrance.

The small, dimly-lit room was filled wall to wall with cage after cage of dogs of all breeds, colors, and sizes. A golden retriever, a cocker spaniel, a beagle, a poodle, and so on. Luckily though, there did not appear to be any pitbulls in the store.

The dog that Roger held up and thrust into Mark's face was a tiny, white ball of fluff whose eyes were barely visible under the fur, and was by no means a "killer" dog by anyone's terms. If anything, the thing looked more like a giant, overly-fluffy cotton ball than a dog. A walking mop. Even Mark couldn't keep the smile off his face as he took the puppy from Roger and stroked the fur.

"Whatever happened to the pitbull?" he asked, but instantly regretted the words the second they left his mouth.

'Goddamn it, Cohen, you couldn't just be happy with the cotton ball, could you?'

"I like her better," Roger replied, snatching the furball from Mark and burying his face in her excessive hair.

Mark breathed out a sigh of relief as Roger walked out of the room to pay the two dollar fee and sign the adoption papers.

"Killer?" Mark asked incredulously as he approached Roger from the behind, looking over his shoulder at the yellow form. "You're going to call her Killer?"

"Well of course. What else am I supposed to call her? Fluffy?"

"It'd make more sense than Killer!"

Roger stuck out his tongue in disgust and rolled his eyes as he cuddled Killer in his arms.

"No. She's my Killer."

Killer barked happily, a high pitched yip that made her entire body tremble and shake.

Mark eyed the tiny white fluffball, complete with a baby pink collar adorned with rhinestones, and burst into laughter. But the giggles quickly ceased as he noticed Roger kissing Killer's moist, black nose and the dog licking his face in return.

"Ew, Roger, that's disgusting. Stop that!"

"No." He went right back to kissing the puppy's nose.

"You know, after seeing that, I don't think I could kiss you again."

The musician quickly released Killer as Mark chuckled to himself, attaching the dog's matching pink leash to the collar that, for some reason, reminded him of Barbie.

"Come on Rog, lets get out of here."

No response.

"Roger?" Mark turned around, pulling Killer to a halt in the process.

The filmmaker was horrified to see his lover watching, mystified, as if in a trance, a large, dangerous looking boa constrictor in a glass tank across the room.

"No. No, Roger, no. You can just forget about it."

"But-"

"No! No snakes, the dog is bad enough!"

The musician pouted as he turned around to face Mark, arms crossed, and lower lip jutted out, looking very much like a child who had just been told he would be getting no dessert.

"Please? I mean, look at how cool he is! And how big! Wouldn't he look great in the loft, Mark? Wouldn't he?"

The filmmaker's mind raced as he wracked his brain for ways to distract Roger. Suddenly his gaze traveled towards the window which showcased the perfect picture of a clear afternoon sky, complete with the brightest rainbow he had ever seen.

"Hey Rog, look, a rainbow!"

The musician stopped mid-sentence.

"Ooh, gay pride!"

He rushed outside and Mark followed, chuckling and praising himself for his quick thinking.

By his side Roger walked with Killer, the wheels in his mind also turning. He just had to find a way to get that snake! Suddenly his face lit up and a slow smile spread across his face.

"Hey Mark, why aren't we married?"