“I don’t know why you taunt her,” he says. “You’re hardly in a position to talk, Bob. You are Snickers.”

“Come over here to the window and say that.”

“So you can, what, drool me to death?”

“Are you aware that my best friend is a gorilla?” I ask. “You would make fantastic ape chow, dude.”

Nutwit reaches for a dangling acorn and yanks it free. “I thought gorillas were vegetarians.”

“Ivan eats termites,” I say. “He might make an exception for you.”

“Face it, Bob. You’re soft. You’re one step away from your own pink rain boots.”

“He has a point,” says Minnie, one of the family’s guinea pigs, from her cage next to the TV.

“No, he doesn’t,” says Moo, her cagemate.

“Yes, he does,” Minnie squeaks.

“Doesn’t.”

“Does.”

“Does.”

“Doesn’t . . .” Minnie pauses. “Wait, you tricked me!”

The guinea pigs rarely agree on anything.

Nutwit leaps over to the window ledge, acorn in paw. He presses his tiny, twitchy nose to the screen. “You couldn’t last a day out here, Bob. Some of us have to live by our wiles.”

“Hey, I lived on the street longer than you’ve been alive.”

Nutwit nibbles his acorn. He’s quite the prissy eater. “Whatever you say, Bob.”

“I say scram.”

“Fine. Hint taken. Anyway, storm’s en route. I should be stocking up on my nut stash while I can.” Nutwit gives me a wise-guy look. “That’s how we do it in the real world.” He scampers off with an acrobatic flourish.

Squirrels never do a simple jump when a quadruple-backflip-cartwheel is an option.

“You’re full of it,” I say to nobody in particular.

“We’re full of it!” says Minnie.

“Yes, we’re extremely full of it!” says Moo, and they popcorn in agreement.

Guinea pigs hop up and down when they’re happy. It’s called popcorning. And it’s totally ridiculous.

You’re happy, wag your tail like a real mammal.

“I am not soft,” I mutter, nosing my protruding belly.

I leap, with effort, off the couch. Then I head to the bathroom for a good, long drink from the water bowl of power.

spoiled

I know Nutwit has a point.

I’ve become a creature of habit, spoiled after a stretch of being my own dog. For a long time, I was Bob the beast, cunning and streetwise.

As a stray, I lived off leftovers at the mall while Snickers dined on her fancy-pants kibble. Man, how I loved that cotton candy stuck to the floor. The unexpected UFOs. The ends of ketchup-covered hot dogs, scattered under the bleachers like, I dunno, big toes or something.

Ivan offered to share his gorilla food with me, and Stella and Ruby were always ready to pass along a carrot or an apple. But I refused. I needed to stay in shape, stay tough, stay true to my wild nature.