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cat left a mouse on our doorstep.”
    “Oh,” I say.
    “At least, I think it was a mouse.”
    “Right,” I say.
    “Hard to tell what the things are when your cat gets through with them.”
    “Uh-huh,” I say.
    “It really upsets my wife, you know.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “You might think about getting him declawed.”
    We’ve had this conversation before, Mr. Rosentople and I. Most adults want to talk about my delicate psyche or my poor poor mother or about the nosy reporters calling day and night, getting into everybody’s business. They want to see if they can get the real story out of me. Mr. Rosentople wants to talk about my cat. He’s a man obsessed. “I can’t get him declawed. Those are his weapons, his protection. He’dbe defenseless without them. What if he were attacked by another cat?”
    Mr. Rosentople snorts. “Your cat has probably already eaten all the other cats around here.”
    “I don’t think that’s fair.”
    “He’s bigger than my dog.”
    “You have a tiny dog.”
    “I have a normal dog. Your cat is a beast.”
    “He’s just a cat.”
    “Why doesn’t he leave the mice on your doorstep?” says Mr. Rosentople.
    “I don’t know why,” I say. But I’m pretty sure Pib doesn’t leave bloody gifts on my doorstep because he doesn’t want to upset me. (I love cats, but I also love rabbits and chipmunks and squirrels, oh my.) And I’m pretty sure Pib leaves his kill on Mr. Rosentople’s doorstep because Mr. Rosentople is the butcher who wants Pib’s claws ripped out. Pib is not stupid. Pib believes in making a statement.
    Mr. Rosentople says, “If he doesn’t stop doing it, I’m going to have to talk to your mother again.”
    “You don’t need to talk to my mother,” I say.
    “I’ll have to.”
    “She’s just going to tell you the same thing.”
    “Your mother’s a reasonable woman,” he says, which proves that he doesn’t know the first thing about my mother.
    “I’ll try to keep a better eye on Pib,” I say. “I’ll keep him inside more.”
    “Thank you,” says Mr. Rosentople. “That’s all I ask.”
    It’s not. But like everyone else, we pretend.
     
    I play Pib’s game a while longer, then coax him inside, away from the barbarians who would do him harm.
    And, in the kitchen, run smack into another barbarian who would do him harm.
    “Get that rabid thing away from me,” says Madge, kicking at him with one stocking foot. In the face of her ferocious rage, Pib yawns.
    “I wouldn’t do that,” I say. “He’ll bite off your leg and leave it at Mr. Rosentople’s.”
    “Oh, him ” says Madge. She makes the pronoun sound like a swear. “I can’t stand him .”
    “Who can?”
    “Mrs. Rosentople, I guess,” Madge says. She’s emptied all the cookies from a package of Oreos. She wets her finger and presses it inside the bag to get it covered with crumbs. Then she licks her finger. I can tell she hasn’t left her bedroom all day. She’s wearing her pajama bottoms, and her greasy hair is plastered to her head. On the table is her laptop, which is currently showing The Pianist , one of Madge’s Top Ten War Films Guaranteed to Depress You into a Coma.
    “How about a shower?” I say.
    “I’m conserving our natural resources.”
    “For how long?”
    “I’m not taking a shower until Mom cans my stupid therapist.”
    I had to go see her therapist once for a family session. I didn’t think he was so bad. “Why? He seemed nice enough,” I say.
    “Nice? Nice? ” she says. “Please. They all start out that way, until they try to convince you to take drugs.” Madge’s skin is the gray of skim milk, and her eyes look like she’s used red liner on them. If I ever wanted to paint a ghoul, I’ve got the ideal model. Maybe drugs could stop the transformation before it is complete.
    I say, “Don’t some people need drugs?”
    “Do you want to know what the latest research says? That drugs don’t work. That they’re no better than