Imagine a home maintained by, I don't know, yours truly. From the Spanish trucker comics taped to the fridge to the mystifying soy products *in* the fridge to the Lenca shawls on the sofa to the giant Harry Potter tapestry on the wall, the atmosphere is saturated with strangeness. Common household movement - such as one-woman pogo dancing to the BBC theme, or spontaneous attempts to do crane kicks, or even your standard giant-yoga-ball accident - forces strange out of the surfaces and makes it airborne. Thus, anyone habitually exposed to this environment - say, an impressionable child - has no choice but to be exposed to, and absorb, critical levels of eccentricity through simple environmental proximity.

The effects of this phenomenon on the surrounding apartments is already reaching demonstrable levels.

In order to prevent one's offspring from suffering the fate of being unbearably obsessed with Doctor Who - allowing them instead to channel their energies in self-chosen directions, like being unbearably obsessed with football scores - one must protect them from free-floating weirdness in their environment. Thus, baby hazmat suits, as a synecdoche for respect for individual self-determination combined with a fatalistic attitude towards eventual cultural contamination. (Some reference to Rousseau's Noble Savage is probably called for here).

Like any other item of clothing, a haz-mat suit on a baby becomes cute through proximity.

The only thing cuter than babies in hazmat suits would be puppies in hazmat suits, possibly gamboling in meadows in groups.

And for that reason, we want someone to draw puppies in hazmat suits. I am sure now it all makes perfect sense.
(My sister is also a drawer of things, and she now has a puppy in-house, so I will lean on her).