When I’m with Ivan, I think: Pal, we’ve been through a lot, you and me. We are survivors.

When I’m with little Ruby, I think: Girl, look at you! Hard-luck past, and here you are, so much happier. So loved.

Ruby, like Ivan, was plucked from Africa as a baby. She ended up in a circus that went bankrupt, then got shipped off to Mack’s mall.

Ruby was taken in by dear old Stella. When Stella passed away, Ivan stepped in to play . . . well, elephant dad, I guess.

I did my part, too. Not ’cause I felt like I had to.

It just made life easier. Elephant toddlers are a handful.

You think humans are bad? Try putting a two-hundred-pound baby elephant in time-out.

ruby’s family

Little Ruby seems much more content at the park, surrounded by her new herd. Old and young and in between, they spoil that adorable pachyderm like you wouldn’t believe.

She deserves every minute of it. Kid had a rough start.

Seems elephants hang out in packs of females. Now that she’s at the park, Ruby has adoptive sisters and aunts and grandmothers galore. (In the wild, the elephant guys head off, once they’re old enough, and do their own thing.)

Sometimes I lose track of who’s who among the elephants, because they’re always taking mud baths, scrambling their smells.

By the way, what kind of animal actually likes baths?

Mud, sure.

ivan’s art

“How’s it going, girl?” I call to Ruby as she stops near the moat edging the wall.

“I had cantaloupe for breakfast, Uncle Bob! And it was yummy! And then I took a mud bath!” She pauses to take a breath. “Do you want to hear a new dog riddle, Uncle Bob?”

“Of course I do,” I say, and I catch Ivan’s amused glance.

“What kind of dog is always on time?” asks Ruby.

“Hmm. You got me, Ruby. I’m totally baffled. Befuddled. Bewildered. What kind of dog?”

“A watchdog!” Ruby exclaims. “Watchdog! Get it, Uncle Bob?”

“Not bad, Ruby. Not bad at all,” I say.

“Ivan says it’s going to rain buckets,” says Ruby. She dips her trunk in the moat and blows bubbles.

“I think Ivan is onto something there.”

“Did he show you his new picture?” Ruby asks. She grabs a tuft of grass and tosses it in the air. “I wish I could see it, but I can’t ’cause of that silly wall. But he told me all about it.”

My pal Ivan is quite the artist, just like Julia.

Ivan sits up and nods toward a spot on the wall.

“Another mud mural?” I ask.

As any good dog knows, dirt plus water equals mud, and mud means mess, and mess means let’s roll in this stuff and maybe dig a hole or two or ten.

But for Ivan, mud plus a flat surface equals a waiting canvas.