I was walking my little dog, Pip, late the other night, and a young man struck up a conversation that has really stuck in my head. The man happened to be very good-looking, so that could have been part of it, but I digress. He cooed over Pip, and I said proudly, "He's my baby."

The man looked up, flashed me a smile and asked, "But why would you want that? Now that you have a baby, you can't come get a drink with me."

Cheesy come-on aside, the man has a point. It's not easy being a mother in the city, even if it's only mother to a dog.

I worry about Pip. I know this is not new to all the moms out there, but it's new to me. And there's a lot to worry about in the city. Just last month, a young woman was hit by a cab crossing the street, breaking both her legs, but what she was most worried about was her little Yorkie who had gotten lost in the commotion!

Pip loves to chase pigeons, and I'm always worried he's going to slip out of his lead and chase one into the street. So I bought him a harness that is tough enough for a paratrooper.

I still wish it had an airbag.

And I could never bear to tie him up outside a store, even for a minute. He's just so cute, he is too tempting to steal. And he's so friendly, he'd probably trot gaily along with his kidnapper. He'd be the Patty Hearst of dogs.

And I'd be left in the agony of not knowing what became of him, or worse, I'd find him robbing a bank in a floppy hat.

It's too horrible to imagine.

So rather than leave him outside, I put on my best "whadda-you-lookin-at?" New Yorker face and march Pip right into the coffee shop and the local bodega. Once inside, his puppy charms do the trick, and no one asks me to leave.

Good dog.

But one time he lifted a leg on the stack of newspapers outside.

Bad dog.

I am a total helicopter mom at the dog park. Instead of sitting on a bench yakking into my phone like most of the dog parents, I trail 10 feet behind Pip, keeping a watchful eye on the pit bull lounging - or lying in wait - and the terrier chewing, a little too intensely, on his dirty tennis ball.

I don't want Pip falling in with the wrong crowd.

Luckily, Pip is far better socialized than I am. He politely makes the rounds, first of dog butts, then of human knees. With his ever-wagging tail and his big, bright eyes, he is so charming that people often put down their phones or BlackBerrys and actually pull him into their laps. And these are New Yorkers!

The dog should run for office. He'd get three terms, no problem.

But even when he's safe at home, I often worry about leaving him alone too long. Instead of being a cafe nomad like I was at school, now I write only at home to be with him. And I regularly pass on outings with friends that could keep me out too long. Every potential date has to pass the high bar of being more fun than sitting on the couch, watching TV, and sharing a vanilla yogurt with Pip.

Don't get around much anymore.

Was it the right choice, getting a dog so soon after moving here?

I think about it, lying in bed. I see Pip has just completed his nighttime bed rotation, a series of sleeping positions and repositions that begin at the foot of my bed and end at my head. My pillow makes a little pat sound as he flops his chin on the edge of it, and he gives a tiny snort, the dog equivalent of a satisfied sigh. I stroke the soft fur on his head and watch his chocolate brown eyes grow dozy until his heavy, russet lashes close them for good.

Like I said to the man in the street that night, "He's worth it."