Is this the face of a home invader?

Best MOMENT WITH the new puppy? When the baby pulled his pacifier out, put it in the dog’s mouth, then put it back in his own mouth. Just think of the germs. That sort of thing can’t be good for a little dog.

“Isn’t this puppy cute?” my wife says.

“Just keep him off the carpets,” I say.

The lovely and patient older daughter is back for spring break, with bags of dirty laundry, a new puppy and that creme brulee torch she uses to weld rich, eggy desserts. God bless these college kids for their resourcefulness and lack of forethought.

“She’s a puppy raising a puppy,” I tell her mother.

“Your daughter’s very responsible,” her mother notes.

“Yes,” I say. “But she’s not ready for a puppy.”

Who ever is? A new puppy turns a household upside down. He bites everything. He relieves himself where he pleases. One afternoon, I wake from a nap to find him sleeping on my larynx.

“He needs to go out,” I say.

“Why?”

“Trust me,” I say. “He needs to go out.”

Puppies are bred by a consortium of carpet salesmen and floor refinishers. They have damaged more oak than lightning and wind combined. When puppies aren’t christening the floors, they are scoping out that new chair you just reupholstered or the carpeting in the bedroom. “Hey, this looks nice,” the puppy thinks. “Textured Karastan. My favorite.”

Then there’s that breath of theirs, a combination of whisky and truck exhaust. Hemingway had breath like that, most likely. With the faint traces of a bad cigar.

“Who’s paying for his shots?” I ask.

“Shots?”

“Dogs cost more than children,” I tell my daughter.

“Don’t worry, Dad.”

“Worry?” I ask. “Never.”

Like many college kids, my daughter has not fully weighed the financial consequences of this new acquisition. It’s much like the way they buy cars, thinking of only the sticker price and not the taxes, insurance, registration, delivery charges, gasoline, oil changes and all the other ways a car costs you. I guess that’s what dads are for. To think ahead. To ask questions.

“Ever heard a beagle bark?” I ask my daughter.

“No.”

“You’re in for a treat.”

Two days later, the beagle barks his first bark. It is the mournful wail of a man about to be beheaded. Each bark lasts five seconds. Then another one comes. He scares himself with his own noises, so he barks some more.

At 8 weeks old, the dog is all bark and all bite.

“He chews everything,” my older daughter says.

“He tickles,” the little girl says, laughing.

“Ouch,” says the boy, attacked by the pup’s sewing-needle teeth. “Ouch-ouch-ouch.”

The puppy’s name is Koa. You know, like the campgrounds. My daughter explained that it is a Hawaiian word for something I can’t quite remember. Probably campground.

Despite his youth and loopy demeanor, this puppy seems to be fairly bright. He thinks my wristwatch is his mother. Or he thinks I am his mother and my watchband is some sort of teat.

Then again, maybe he’s not that bright. While playing with dust bunnies, which he assumes are alive, the puppy gets stuck beneath the armoire. A day or two earlier, he slid out easily on a belly soft as cake. Now he’s grown enough to get pinned in. He yelps. Stuck.

Meanwhile, our 8-year-old dog is eating the puppy’s food. The puppy pops free and runs to eat the cat food. The cat eats the baby’s food. And all I can think: Wish we had gone with that Pergo flooring.

“I think life was better,” I tell my wife, “when our daughter was just trying to kill us with fancy desserts.”

“And your point?” she asks.

“That things can always get worse,” I tell her.

We are -- more than usual even -- a household in turmoil. My March Madness bracket is a disaster. The cars need work. School projects are behind schedule. No one has eaten a vegetable in, like, four days.

And on Saturday, a red-chested robin is in the garage eyeing the rafters for her nest. Lot of curb appeal, our house. There’s the entire rest of the world, but this mother robin picks our place to start a family, up in the dry, dark pine rafters of the garage, where the hula hoops are stored. Who keeps hula hoops anymore? I guess we do.

And as I write this, a pregnant sparrow is tapping on a window that looks out over the ever-greener backyard, asking if we might spare a room.

“Believe me, pal,” I warn her, “this is no place for living things.”

Yet, they keep coming: puppies, toddlers, the pregnant birds -- to the loud, little home under the olive trees. To the house with a hundred heartbeats.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.