LITMIR.BIZ

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plan to Bob.

      “Ivan,” he says, “trust me on this one: the problem is not your appetite.” He hops on to my chest and licks my chin, checking for leftovers.

      Bob is a stray, which means he does not have a permanent address. He is so speedy, so wily, that mall workers long ago gave up trying to catch him. Bob can sneak into cracks and crevices like a tracked rat. He lives well off the ends of hot dogs he pulls from the trash. For dessert, he laps up spilled lemonade and splattered ice-cream cones.

      I’ve tried to share my food with Bob, but he is a picky eater, and says he prefers to hunt for himself.

      Bob is tiny, wiry and fast, like a barking squirrel. He is nut coloured and big eared. His tail moves like weeds in the wind, spiralling, dancing.

      Bob’s tail makes me dizzy and confused. It has meanings within meanings, like human words. “I am sad,” it says. “I am happy.” It says, “Beware! I may be tiny, but my teeth are sharp.”

      Gorillas don’t have any use for tails. Our feelings are uncomplicated. Our rumps are unadorned.

      Bob used to have three brothers and two sisters. Humans tossed them out of a truck on to the freeway when they were a few weeks old. Bob rolled into a ditch.

      The others did not.

      His first night on the highway, Bob slept in the icy mud of the ditch. When he woke, he was so cold that his legs would not bend for an hour.

      The next night, Bob slept under some dirty hay near the Big Top Mall garbage bins.

      The following night, Bob found the spot in the corner of my domain where the glass is broken. I dreamed that I’d eaten a furry doughnut, and when I woke in the dark, I discovered a tiny puppy snoring on top of my belly.

      It had been so long since I’d felt the comfort of another’s warmth that I wasn’t sure what to do. Not that I hadn’t had visitors. Mack had been in my domain, of course, and many other keepers. I’d seen my share of rats zip past, and the occasional wayward sparrow had fluttered in through a hole in my ceiling.

      But they never stayed long.

      I didn’t move all night, for fear of waking Bob.

      Wild

      Once I asked Bob why he didn’t want a home. Humans, I’d noticed, seem to be irrationally fond of dogs, and I could see why a puppy would be easier to cuddle with than, say, a gorilla.

      “Everywhere is my home,” Bob answered. “I am a wild beast, my friend: untamed and undaunted.”

      I told Bob he could work in the shows like Snickers, the poodle who rides Stella.

      Bob said Snickers sleeps on a pink pillow in Mack’s office. He said she eats foul-smelling meat from a can.

      He made a face. His lips curled, revealing tiny needles of teeth.

      “Poodles,” he said, “are parasites.”

      Picasso

      Mack gives me a fresh crayon, a yellow one, and ten pieces of paper. “Time to earn your keep, Picasso,” he mutters.

      I wonder who this Picasso is. Did he have a tyre swing like me? Did he ever eat his crayons?

      I know I have lost my magic, so I try my very best. I clutch the crayon and think.

      I scan my domain. What is yellow?

      A banana.

      I draw a banana. The paper tears, but only a little.

      I lean back, and Mack picks up the drawing. “Another day, another scribble,” he says. “One down, nine to go.”

      What else is yellow? I wonder, scanning my domain.

      I draw another banana. And then I draw eight more.

      Three Visitors

      Three visitors are here: a woman, a boy, a girl.

      I strut across my domain for them. I dangle from my tyre swing. I eat three banana peels in a row.

      The boy spits at my window. The girl throws a handful of pebbles.

      Sometimes I’m glad the glass is there.

      My Visitors Return

      After the show, the spit-pebble children come back.

      I display my impressive teeth. I splash in my filthy pool. I grunt and hoot. I eat and eat and eat some more.

      The children pound their pathetic chests. They toss more pebbles.

      “Slimy chimps,” I mutter. I throw a me-ball at them.

      Sometimes I wish the glass were not there.

      Sorry

      I’m sorry I called those children slimy chimps.

      My mother would be ashamed of me.

      Julia

      Like the spit-pebble children, Julia is a child, but that, after all, is not her fault.

      While her father, George, cleans the mall each night, Julia sits by my domain. She could sit anywhere she wants: by the carousel, in the empty food court, on the bleachers coated in sawdust. But I am not bragging when I say that she always chooses to sit with me.

      I think it’s because we both love to draw.

      Sara, Julia’s mother, used to help clean the mall. But when she got sick and grew pale and stooped, Sara stopped coming. Every night Julia offers to help George, and every night he says firmly, “Homework, Julia. The floors will just get dirty again.”

      Homework, I have discovered, involves a sharp pencil and thick books and long sighs.

      I enjoy chewing pencils. I am sure I would excel at homework.

      Sometimes Julia dozes off, and sometimes she reads her books, but mostly she draws pictures and talks about her day.

      I don’t know why people talk to me, but they often do. Perhaps it’s because they think I can’t understand them.

      Or perhaps it’s because I can’t talk back.

      Julia likes science and art. She doesn’t like Lila Burpee, who teases her because her clothes are old, and she does like Deshawn Williams, who teases her too, but in a nice way, and she would like to be a famous artist when she grows up.

      Sometimes Julia draws me. I am an elegant fellow in her pictures, with my silver back gleaming like moon on moss. I never look angry, the way I do on the fading billboard by the highway.

      I always look a bit sad, though.

      Drawing Bob

      I love Julia’s pictures of Bob.

      She draws him flying across the page, a blur of feet and fur. She draws him motionless, peeking out from behind a trash can or the soft hill of my belly.

      Sometimes in her drawings, Julia gives Bob wings or a lion’s mane. Once she gave him a tortoise shell.

      But the best thing she ever gave him wasn’t a drawing. Julia gave Bob his name.

      For a long time, no one knew what to call Bob. Now and then, a mall worker would try to approach him with a tidbit. “Here, doggie,” they’d call, holding out a French fry. “Come on, pooch,” they’d say. “How about a little piece of sandwich?”

      But he would always vanish into the shadows before anyone could get too close.

      One afternoon, Julia decided to draw the little dog curled up in the corner of my domain. First, she watched him for a long time, chewing on her thumbnail. I could tell she was looking at him the way an artist looks at the

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