I think my mother likes the dog better than me, even though I've never pooped on her Oriental carpet, dragged her facedown on a leash because I couldn't resist sniffing the dog's butt that just went by, or even left bales of dog hair all over the house for her to vacuum up.

She gets mad at the dog, don't get me wrong. But after five minutes, she's back to talking baby talk to her and petting her behind the ears.

"Sorry Ah peed on the rug, Momma," Rosie says. "Ah jes couldn't hold it any longer."

That's not the dog talking, of course, but my mother talking for Rosie in a Texas drawl. Mom has these kinds of conversations with the dog every day.

"That's okay, Rosie," she tells the dog as she is on her knees, sopping up the latest accident with paper towels. "I should have let you out earlier."

"Ah would've been happy to have taken you for a walk, Momma! Ah'm always happy to do that."

"I know, Rosie." Mom stops cleaning for a brief moment to go over to give the offending mutt a big hug. Rosie lies on the sofa and receives the hug, as a queen deigning to let one of her subjects touch her. It's that bad, how she has Mom wrapped around her paw.

I wish Mom was like that with me. She holds grudges for days when I leave a mess—and by mess I mean I forget to put things away or I don't change the toilet paper roll when it's empty. Or the big one: my room!

"Benjamin, I thought I told you to do something about your room!" she screams from the upstairs landing. I can hear her all the way down into the basement, where I'm trying to concentrate on my PlayStation Call of Duty game.

"I did, Mom," I yell back as I punch the control buttons. "I shut the door. That's what you asked me to do."

"This mess is beyond keeping the door shut! It smells in here. Agh! There's dog poop on your rug!" By this time, she's screaming as though she discovered nuclear waste emitting from my room. "Benjamin! Get up here! Now!"

Okay, so I don't always keep the door to my bedroom shut. But it's not my fault a dog pooped in my room. The dog is her responsibility.

Mom sighs a lot lately, which makes me sigh harder back at her. She's at that age now—middle age, that is—when her assets are no longer her looks. I'm trying to be objective here even though she is my mother, but it's pretty safe to say that she was pretty back in her day. Gorgeous? No, but pretty enough to get by on looks. She still looks good for her age; she's not in great shape, but she's sturdy, where she can walk the dogs a mile or two a couple of times a day. She dyes her hair its original light chestnut brown. She complains that her eyelids are sagging, but not when she's got her eyebrows raised and angry blue eyes are boring into me.

So now her assets lie in this stupid house. Along with her obsessions about dogs and Johnny's autism, she's been obsessed with every house we've lived in, from the one in Oakwood, Texas, to the one in Scarborough, New Jersey, to this latest edition in Adele, Virginia. Through the years, she's spent more time painting, hanging curtains, putting up pictures, and cleaning the house than on anything in which I was ever involved.

As I climb the stairs, she greets me with a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle. She brushes away the strands of hair that fall on her face with the hand that holds the spray bottle. She has that haircut that's short in the back and long in the front, and her hair often falls in her face, creating the effect of one who is constantly being put upon—in other words, her martyr look.

"Be sure to get it all up." She barks her orders. "Use the pet spray, and make sure it soaks in—"

"Okay, Mom, I will!" I say through gritted teeth. "I can't wait to get out of this house!"

"Any time you're ready!" Mom smiles sarcastically.

By this time, Elizabeth has come out of her bedroom, which she has turned into a cocoon for the past couple of months. It's late in the morning, almost noon. I don't hold it against her that she gets up so late; after all, days and nights get mixed up after a few weeks into the summer. Plus, she's got to rest up for her freshman year.

"What's going on?" Elizabeth asks through a yawn, stretching her dancer's arms and legs as she steps into the hallway.

"Rosie pooped in Benjamin's room," Mom says, as though it's my fault.

"She's been doing that a lot lately," Elizabeth says. "Are you all right, Rosie?"

"Mah pelvic flo-ahrisn't what it used to be," Mom says, channeling the dog's thoughts. Mom and Elizabeth have these conversations on a regular basis. It's their strange way of communicating. I find it annoying. The real Rosie is downstairs, lying leisurely in the sunroom with Johnny. That's his usual spot in the house, right off the kitchen but away enough from the rest of the house and, thus, "from too much stimulation."

"What's a pelvic floor?" Elizabeth asks in a loud whisper. "Is that the muscles surrounding your bladder, vagina, and uterus?"

"You got it, sweet thang!" Mom smiles at her as she does her Rosie voice. "Mah human puppies are so smart!"

"Rosie obviously sees your room as a place to relieve herself," Mom says, returning her attention to me. "And why wouldn't she? She probably smells rotting food in here like apple cores, and damp towels that aren't hung up in the bathroom but lying on the floor so that bacteria grows—"

"Okay, Mom, I get the idea!" I snap. Everything she says is true, and I don't have any defense except to say I'll do better next time.

"Smells only a dog could love." She finishes her lecture with a wan smile. "Rosie can't help it. She's a dog."

That seventy-pound brown shepherd mutt is her baby, the fourth child she and Dad wished they had and regretted they never did, being worried that another child would end up autistic like Johnny. I was already born before they found out about Johnny. Elizabeth, my younger sister by two years, turned out okay, but they were pushing their luck. Elizabeth was the longed-for girl. She's like Mom; she loves the dog like it's her sister.

Mom exits downstairs, thank God. She leaves Elizabeth standing in my bedroom doorway. "You need help?" she asks.

"Just get Mom off my back," I say as I press the paper towels into the offending spot. "It's something, isn't it—that she gets on my back all the time and yet dotes on Johnny and Rosie, who do nothing?"

Next thing I know, Mom's yelling at me to come downstairs. "Now!"

When I get down to the kitchen, she and Elizabeth are giving me dirty looks. "How can you think that way?" Mom asks me.

"What way?"

"You said Johnny and Rosie are useless." She looks at me in an accusatory manner.

"I didn't say that! Elizabeth, you're such a tattletale!"

"How can I be a tattletale if you didn't say it?" she asks triumphantly, like a cop who just got the suspect to confess.

"I said Rosie and Johnny don't do any work around here. Besides"—I tilt my head—"Rosie and Johnny don't look too upset." I look over at Rosie and Johnny, who are still in the sunroom. Rosie is lying on the rug next to the windows, resting her chin on her paw. Johnny is staring out into space, making oohing noises.

Mom and Elizabeth look at me as if I just grew a large boil on my face.

"You're complaining about Johnny and Rosie not pulling their weight, huh?" Mom glances at me with a look of disbelief mixed with disappointment. "A...