left him with a permanent deficit of both sarcasm and skepticism. I
hoped not. Although change might be a fundamental principle of the
universe, some things were meant to be timeless, including Bobby’s
insistence on a life that allowed only for things as basic as sand,
surf, and sun.
“I’ve greatly enjoyed all the animals that have come to me over the
years,” Roosevelt said as drily as if he were a veterinarian
reminiscing about a career in animal medicine. He reached out to
Mungojerrie and stroked his head, scratched behind his ears. The cat
leaned into the big man’s hand and purred. “But these new cats I’ve
been encountering the last two years or so . . . they open a far more
exciting dimension of communication.” He turned to Orson: “And I’m
sure that You are every bit as interesting as the cats.”
Panting, tongue lolling, Orson assumed an expression of perfect doggy
vacuousness.
“Listen, dog, You have never fooled me,” Roosevelt assured him. “And
after your little game with the cat a moment ago, You might as well
give up the act.”
Ignoring Mungojerrie, Orson looked down at the three biscuits in front
of him, on the table.
“You can pretend to be all dog appetite, pretend nothing’s more
important to You than those tasty treats, but I know differently.”
Gaze locked on the biscuits, Orson whined longingly.
Roosevelt said, “It was You who brought Chris here the first time, old
pup, so why did You come if not to talk?”
On Christmas Eve, more than two years ago, not a month before my mother
died, Orson and I had been roaming the night, according to our usual
habits. He had been only a year old then. As a puppy, he had been
frisky and playful, but he had never been as hyper as most very young
dogs. Nevertheless, at the age of one, he was not always able to
control his curiosity and not always as wellbehaved as he ultimately
became. We were on the outdoor basketball court behind the high
school, my dog and I, and I was shooting baskets. I was telling Orson
that Michael Jordan should be damn glad that I’d been born with XP and
was unable to compete under lights, when the mutt abruptly sprinted
away from me. Repeatedly I called to him, but he only paused to glance
back at me, then trotted away again. By the time I realized that he
was not going to return, I didn’t even have time to snug the ball into
the net bag that was tied to the handlebars of my bicycle. I pedaled
after the fugitive fur ball, and he led me on a wild chase: street to
alley to street, through Quester Park, down to the marina, and
ultimately along the docks to the Nostromo. Although he rarely barked,
that night Orson flew into a barking frenzy as he leaped off the dock
directly onto the porchlike afterdeck of the cruiser, and by the time I
braked to a skidding halt on the damp dock planks, Roosevelt had come
out of the boat to cuddle and calm the dog.
“You want to talk,” Roosevelt told Orson now. “You originally came
here wanting to talk, but I suspect You just don’t trust me.”
Orson kept his head down, his eyes on the biscuits.
“Even after two years, You half suspect maybe I’m hooked up with the
people at Wyvern, and You’re not going to be anything but the most
doggie of dogs until You’re sure of me.”
Sniffing the biscuits, once more licking the table around them, Orson
seemed not even to be aware that anyone was speaking to him.
Turning his attention to me, Roosevelt said, “These new cats, they come
from Wyvem. Some are first-generation, the original escapees, and some
are second-generation who were born in freedom.”
“Lab animals?” I asked.
“The first generation were, yes. They and their offspring are
different from other cats. Different in lots of ways.”
“Smarter,” I said, remembering the behavior of the monkeys.
“You know more than I thought.”
“It’s been a busy night. How smart are they?”
“I don’t know how to calibrate that,” he said, and I could see that he