9780008390662

tiny but tough
Ivan always seems like nothing scares him. (Not even Kinyani, who scares
the heck outa me.)
On the outside, I suppose that’s how I look, too. Tiny but tough.
But inside? Well. Sometimes, no matter how hard I try, I can’t find that guy
to save my life.
It’s like he’s cowering in some corner of my heart.
I hate it when that happens. I hate that I’m not the guy my friends think I am.
The guy the world expects.
I keep waiting for things to go bad on me. Worrying that my nice, tidy little
dog life will blow up in my face.
I think George is a worrier, too. He’ll get up in the middle of the night and
head to the kitchen sometimes, his old slippers scuffing on the wooden floor.
I always hear him. Always join him.
When he opens the fridge, the light spills out like maple syrup on a hot
pancake. Wonderful scents drift my way. Leftover meat loaf. Stinky cheese.
Expired yogurt that someone might as well eat, and it seems like the dog is
the safest bet.
The smells rain around me, and yeah, my tongue starts hanging out, and I
nudge George’s pj’ed leg. “You can’t sleep either, huh?” he’ll say. Or maybe:
“I can’t tell if you have insomnia or just a very acute sense of smell.”
Both, actually.
I wait. He usually makes himself a PB&J with banana, which is good with