I crane my neck, edging a bit farther down the top of the wall. Don’t want to draw attention to myself.

“Hey, nice,” I say.

I mean, I’m not an art guy. To me, art is a glop of spray cheese on a cheese dog with extra grated cheese on top.

Still, I’ve always admired Ivan’s work.

“It’s—” Ivan begins.

“No,” I say. “Don’t tell me. Lemme guess.”

“You always guess wrong,” Ivan says.

“Not always.”

“You thought my palm tree was a dandelion.”

“Art is in the eye of the beholder,” I say.

“You thought my blackberries were giant ants.”

Kinyani ambles up to join in the conversation. “And need I remind you that you thought his portrait of me was a chimpanzee with gas?”

“The resemblance was striking,” I say.

Kinyani glares at me.

She glares at me a lot.

on the subject of chimps

Probably I shouldn’t have mentioned the chimp angle.

Gorillas aren’t as open-minded as dogs. A lot of them have a thing about chimps. Think they’re clowns. But when I look at apes and gorillas, seems to me they have a lot more in common than they admit to.

Dogs ain’t perfect. But I’ll tell you one thing where we rule: tolerance.

For us, a dog is a dog is a dog. I see a Great Dane, I say howdy. I run into a puggle, it’s Glad to meet ya, how’s it goin’, smelled any good pee lately?

Go to a dog park and you’ll see. We are equal opportunity playful. You sniff my rear, I sniff yours.

You don’t see that with humans, obviously. Constantly seeing differences where none exist. All those things like skin color? Dogs could care less. You think I won’t hang with a dalmatian ’cause he’s spotted? Or a shar-pei ’cause she’s wrinkled?

I’m not saying I love every dog I meet. (Snickers comes to mind.)

But I’ll always give a dog the benefit of the doubt. Life is short. Play is good. And there are plenty of tennis balls to go around.

a very handsome dog

“Hi, Aunt Kinyani!” Ruby calls.

“Once again, Ruby,” says Kinyani, “I am not your aunt. I am a primate. And you, my dear, are not. More’s the pity.”

“But if Ivan is my uncle, then you have to be my aunt,” Ruby declares.

“Ahem,” says Ivan, pointing to the wall. “My painting, Bob?”

I consider. “It looks like . . . like a dog?”

Ruby flaps her ears. I can tell she is trying very hard to stay quiet.

“A very handsome dog,” I add. “Is it—”

“It is!” Ruby exclaims. “It’s you, Uncle Bob! Uncle Ivan told me!”

“But who’s that?” I ask, pointing to another set of mud strokes.

“I thought you needed a companion,” says Ivan. “I know you must get lonely at home, by yourself all day.”