The afternoon sun of early May streamed into Alex's room, but the usual quiet was shattered by a high-pitched, whimpering squeak. Marco stood in her doorway, beaming, holding a wriggling bundle of tan and black fur with impossibly long, velvety ears and soulful, droopy eyes.
"Alex Dunphy," he announced with theatrical gravity. "Meet your son."
Alex lowered her textbook, her eyes wide. "What is that?"
"It's a bloodhound! A little detective! Look at him!" Marco thrust the puppy forward. It let out a tiny "aroo!" and tried to lick his chin.
"Why is it… here?" Alex asked, a familiar sense of Marco-induced dread washing over her.
"Our son," Marco corrected, placing the squirming puppy directly into her lap. "We're raising him together. It'll be good practice. For… you know. The future."
The puppy, all clumsy paws and warm, milky breath, immediately tried to burrow into her sweater. Alex, despite her best efforts, felt her rigid posture soften. "Marco, we can't have a dog. My parents would never allow it. Your mom would kill you."
"Details," he waved a hand, his eyes fixed on the scene. "Look at him! He already loves his mamá."
For the next hour, Marco forced "motherhood" upon her. He made her hold the bottle of puppy milk replacer. He guided her hand to pet the little guy's soft head. He insisted she decide on a name.
"He needs a strong name," Marco declared. "Something noble. Like… Hercules. Or Thor."
The puppy, tripping over its own ears, let out a comically deep howl for its size.
"He's not noble, he's a mess," Alex said, but she was smiling. She looked at the dog's wrinkled brow, his earnest, clumsy movements. "Sherlock," she said finally.
Marco's face lit up. "Sherlock! Perfecto! Because he's gonna sniff out all the secrets!" He scooped up the puppy—Sherlock—and kissed its head. "You hear that? Mamá is so smart."
---
Later that evening, the scene at the Dunphy house was anything but peaceful. Marco had, without a word of warning to Alex, summoned the parental cavalry. Phil, Claire, and a very confused-looking Rosa Rivera now stood in the Dunphy living room, staring at each other.
"So… you're Marco's mom," Claire said, forcing a polite smile. "It's so nice to finally meet you."
Rosa, arms crossed, gave a curt nod. "*Igualmente.* My son has told me many things. Now, why are we here? He said it was an emergency."
"That's what we'd like to know," Phil said, his 'cool dad' smile looking strained. "Marco? What's this about?"
Alex stood to the side, her arms crossed, glaring at Marco. "Yeah, Marco. What is this about?"
Marco took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. He looked at the three adults, his expression one of grave importance. "I called you all here today because… there's been a development." He reached out and took Alex's hand, lacing his fingers through hers. She tried to pull away, but he held tight. "Alex and I… we're parents."
The room exploded.
"YOU'RE WHAT?!" Claire shrieked, her face draining of all color.
"OH MY GOD!" Phil yelled, his hands flying to his head. "We're too young to be grandparents! I haven't even mastered the grill!"
Rosa surged forward, her eyes blazing. "¡MARCO RIVERA! ¿ESTÁS LOCO? ¿QUÉ HICISTE?" She started swatting at him in a fury of Spanish curses.
Alex was mortified. "MARCO, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" she yelled, finally yanking her hand free. "WE ARE NOT PARENTS!"
The three adults were a chorus of panic and outrage, talking over each other, their voices climbing in pitch. Alex's attempts to calm them down—"Nothing happened! He's lying!"—were completely drowned out.
Through the chaos, Marco remained eerily calm. A slow grin spread across his face.
"Alright, alright! Everybody chill!" he shouted over the din. As the noise subsided into angry, panting silence, he reached into the large, canvas bag he'd brought with him.
"I said we're parents," he repeated, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "And I'd like you to meet your grandson."
He pulled out a sleepy, blinking Sherlock. The puppy let out a tiny yawn, his long tongue curling, and nuzzled into Marco's chest.
The silence that fell this time was absolute, broken only by the puppy's soft snuffling.
Phil's hands slowly lowered from his head. Claire's jaw, which had been hanging open, snapped shut. Rosa's furious expression melted into one of utter, profound confusion.
"A… a dog?" Claire finally whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming.
"His name is Sherlock," Alex said flatly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I named him."
Marco beamed, holding the puppy out like a furry, droopy-eyed offering. "See? We're a family."
Phil was the first to break. A choked laugh escaped him, followed by a full-bellied roar of relief and amusement. "A BLOODHOUND! You scared me half to death, kid!"
Rosa threw her hands up to the ceiling. "¡Dios mío, este niño me va a matar!" But she was stepping closer, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips as she looked at the puppy.
Claire simply sank onto the couch, looking as if she'd aged ten years in ten seconds. "I'm going to kill you, Marco," she breathed, but there was no heat left in it.
Sherlock, sensing the shift in mood, let out another little "aroo!" and licked Marco's face.
Marco looked at Alex, his eyes sparkling with triumphant, unrepentant joy. "Told you they'd come around."
Alex could only stare at him, at the puppy, at her shell-shocked family, and the beginnings of a brand new, Marco-shaped headache. They were parents. To a bloodhound. Of course they were.
***
The following two weeks in May saw a quiet, unexpected revolution at the Dunphy household. It was a revolution led by four clumsy paws, a nose that could find a single dropped Cheeto in a half-acre yard, and a pair of ears so long they regularly dipped into the water bowl.
Sherlock, the bloodhound puppy, had taken up residence in a cozy, straw-bedded doghouse in the backyard, a compromise fiercely negotiated by Alex after her parents' initial, shell-shocked refusal. The compromise came with strict rules: he was an outdoor dog, Alex was solely responsible for all care, and if his howling disturbed the neighbors, he was gone.
Alex, who had approached the whole situation with academic detachment, quickly found her defenses crumbling.
It started with the feeding. What she'd imagined as a simple scoop-and-pour operation became a ritual. Sherlock would sit, his entire back end wiggling with the effort of staying still, his droopy eyes fixed on her with an intensity usually reserved for Marco spotting a new raccoon. The moment the kibble hit the bowl, he'd let out a deep, joyful "WOOO!" that never failed to startle her, then devour his food with a gusto that was both disgusting and endearing.
Then came the cleanup. Alex, armed with plastic bags and a profound sense of regret, would gag her way through the backyard. "It's a biological process," she'd mutter to herself, holding her breath. "Decomposition, nitrogen cycles…" But no amount of scientific rationalization could make the experience pleasant. Yet, she did it. Every day.
The true turning point was the playing. She'd sit on the back steps with a textbook, and Sherlock would amble over, rest his heavy, warm head on her knee, and sigh as if the weight of the world was on his furry shoulders. He'd bring her a slobber-soaked tennis ball, dropping it with a thwump on her textbook.
"I'm studying, Sherlock," she'd say, her voice stern.
He'd just stare at her, his jowls quivering, and let out a soft, pleading whine.
Five minutes later, Alex would be in the middle of the lawn, throwing the ball and laughing as he galumphed after it, tripping over his own ears with a comical lack of grace. She'd find herself talking to him, explaining complex psychological theories, and he'd tilt his head as if genuinely considering the merits of cognitive behavioral therapy.
Marco, of course, was a constant, smug spectator to this transformation.
He'd lean against the back doorframe, arms crossed, a knowing smirk plastered on his face. "Hey, mami. How's my dog?"
"Our dog is fine," she'd retort, trying to sound annoyed as Sherlock tried to climb into her lap, unaware of his rapidly increasing size.
"Uh-huh," Marco would chuckle, his eyes dancing. "You sure you're not getting attached? That looked like a hug."
"It was a strategic maneuver to prevent him from chewing on my shoelaces," Alex would claim, her voice haughty, even as her fingers scratched behind Sherlock's velvety ears.
He'd catch her sitting on the grass, not reading, but just watching the puppy sleep, a soft, unguarded smile on her face that she never wore around anyone else. The moment she noticed him, the smile would vanish, replaced by her usual deadpan expression.
"What?" she'd say.
"Nothing," he'd reply, the smirk returning. "Just admiring the view."
One afternoon, he found her on the couch, Sherlock's massive head nestled in her lap, snoring loudly. She had one hand resting on his side and was highlighting a textbook with the other. She was so absorbed she didn't hear Marco come in.
He didn't say a word. He just pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.
The click of the camera made her jump. She looked up, flustered. "Delete that."
"Never," Marco said, pocketing his phone. "This is going in the family album. Right next to the one of Carlos stealing my wallet."
She sighed, but didn't push him away as he sat down next to her, reaching over to rub Sherlock's belly. The dog's leg thumped contentedly against the couch cushions.
"You love him," Marco stated, his voice soft and sure.
Alex looked down at the drooling, snoring creature in her lap. He had destroyed two of her socks, dug a hole in her mother's petunias, and his farts could clear a room. He was messy, loud, and a constant, slobbering interruption to her ordered life.
She sighed again, a long, surrendering sound.
"Yeah," she admitted quietly, her fingers tracing the wrinkles on his brow. "I guess I do."
Marco's smirk finally softened into a genuine, tender smile. He leaned over and kissed her temple. "I knew it. You're a natural, mamá."