Thank you again for watching my pooch! I put together these instructions to make sure everything goes smoothly while my fiancée, Sandy, and I spend a long weekend out of town to see if this will work out. Text me if anything comes up. I’ll have my phone on me, which Sandy says is part of the problem.

My dog, Cerberus (he’s a rescue and came with the name), is a big ol’ boy with a few quirks you should know about. Like, you’ll immediately clock that he has three heads.

You’ll also notice that his mane is made of snakes, he has the claws of a lion, and his tail is a serpent. This might seem unconventional at first, but you’ll forget all about it when you gaze into his six puppy-dog eyes, which are black and beady, like those of a mangled Teddy bear. If they start flashing, that means he’s angry. Retreat slowly and give him a minute to cool down.

Despite appearing terrifying, he’s a goofy, loyal fellow. The animal shelter said that his last owner was some odd crank who forced Cerberus to “guard the gates of the Underworld to prevent the dead from leaving,” so it’s just an old habit for him to block the front door. If he’s stationed there, do not order delivery. Cerberus also loves lying down right in front of the Wi-Fi router whenever you need to check the password. (Do not reach around him.)

Unlike being engaged to someone who doesn’t hesitate to share how little she respects you, Cerberus is nothing to be afraid of. Call me sappy, but I love my fearsome good boy! He may be a mutt with extra parts, a complicated past, and a reptilian tail, but he has one big heart.

On the fridge is the number for the emergency vet, which you can’t use because they banned Cerberus after he ate a bunch of parrots. You shouldn’t need the vet anyway, as Cerberus has no allergies or medications. We never even bothered to get him vaccinated for rabies because, when he’s bitten people, they’ve perished immediately—hence his “Do Not Pet” harness.

The morning routine: Cerberus is up at 6:45 A.M. on the dot. He won’t bark or whine—you will simply wake up to him at the side of the bed staring into your soul.

He gets two scoops of food in the morning and another two scoops at night. Two scoops, that’s it. He’ll wail for a third scoop, which makes sense—one scoop per head, right? But, no. Two. We’re trying to keep him lean!

Cerberus is easy to walk as long as you stick to his route. No need to learn the way beforehand—he will simply drag you along the dark and wretched path beneath the Earth’s upper crust.

We suggest taking him out four-ish times a day. Poop bags are on the table by the front door. We do use the prong collar on him. Not that it helps with the pulling. It just makes him look so fucking metal.

Our neighbors have been littering a bunch, so Cerberus has taken to eating stuff off the street when no one is looking. Be careful scrolling while strolling, because our triple-throated guy loves to use one head for loose chicken-wing bones, another for rogue garbage, and the third to fend off anyone who attempts a physical intervention.

He needs an hour of play daily. His slab of human flesh is his most prized possession, and lives under the coffee table. He doesn’t always want to engage with it. Sometimes he just wants you to know it’s there. Throw it if he brings it to you. He’ll bring it back at least once before losing interest and carrying it to his bed, where he’ll protect it for the rest of the evening.

Cerberus is not afraid of thunder and lighting. In fact, lightning and thunder are afraid of him! Enjoy perpetually clear skies and a sense of impending doom while looking after Cerberus.

If he has an accident on a rug, no worries. There’s a pet-stain remover under the sink, which, of course, does nothing. You think a scented enzyme spray called Nature’s Miracle stands a chance against anything that Nature’s Abomination spews? Paper towels are on the counter.

Bedtime is 10:30 P.M. Cerberus sleeps in his crate because it reminds him of guarding the cave between the living and the dead. Turn off the lights and act like you’re winding down, and he’ll walk into the crate on his own. In case of emergency, there’s a lyre on the nightstand that lulls him asleep.

He may randomly bark at the corner of the bedroom at 3 A.M., because he detects a demonic umbra watching you sleep. That, or he’s gotta pee.

Remember that Cerberus is all bite and no bark! Sandy and/or I will be back Monday. Text us pictures! ♦